


(Everyone Wants the) Happy Ending

by shiftylinguini, twistedmiracle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward first time sex, Complete, F/M, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, ignoring and subjugating individuals to the needs of the many, social manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini/pseuds/shiftylinguini, https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedmiracle/pseuds/twistedmiracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Art by ShiftyLinguini, Fic by TwistedMiracle</p><p>Harry is trying awfully hard to do the right things in the wrong place, but no one is listening. Draco is in the right place doing the right things, but no one is paying attention. Something is messing with Hogwarts, and only Harry and Draco ever seem to notice. When things start to fall apart, can Harry and Draco manage to do the right things, in the right place, at the right time? <i>Together?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	(Everyone Wants the) Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

> I rampantly abuse a gorgeous alphabet I found in Google Translate, from a language they call “Sinhala.” If you are actually from Sri Lanka, I can only apologize for the utter mess I have made of your language below. For everyone, whether you speak Sinhala or not, the curly alphabet is not translated anywhere in the fic for a reason, and you should not go running it through a translator (even if that translator is your own brain. ;) ) I was trying to show that there’s a magical barrier impeding communication, not giving people a mystery to solve with a search engine. ;)
> 
>  **Betaed by:** Lettered, **Britpicked** by Writcraft  
>  **Author's Note:** I think I got:  
>  UST that is resolved in the end; getting-together fics; 8th year or within a few years of the war; EWE; pining; humor; magic gone awry; faerie magic and trickery; creatures – especially mysterious ones like owls, loons, ravens, and wolves; Harry's relationship with Draco's wand.  
> Hand jobs; blow jobs; frottage; first times; clumsy sex; forced bed-sharing; wanking; kissing and neck kissing and ear licking/nipping.  
> Also, I am coming to learn that I quite adore crotchety old ladies who don’t have the time or energy for anyone else’s crap. They don’t take up all that much story space, but… I hope you adore them, too. ;)  
> As for Lettered, holy guacamole, you are a miracle worker. It was a joy to work with you, even when Google decided we should stop!
> 
> ETA: Feb 11, 2016. All hail the awesome ShiftyLinguini, whose gorgeous artwork is now visible in the fic!!! Isn't it amazing and gorgeous?!?! I am so excited to have the art IN THE FIC. I am so excited to have ART!

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HDS-Beltane, 2015, Final Fest

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“Mr Potter,” McGonagall says. (Is she tired, or annoyed at him?) “I see you have chosen to join us for dinner again?” Harry blushes. He’d rather hoped McGonagall wouldn’t notice him slouching down between Ginny and Hermione at the Gryffindor table. (It’s why he always sits angled away from the teachers.)

“Yes,” he admits and scratches his head. “I can pay for my dinner if that would help?”

“We can afford to feed you,” McGonagall says with a sad smile. “It is merely,” she pauses, looking like she isn’t sure whether or not to finish her sentence, “that you could have been here for dinner every night, had you agreed to come back for your last year of schooling.”

“I know,” Harry says, suddenly unable to look her in the eye. “And I’m sorry. But it’s too late now.”

McGonagall seems like she wants to argue with him, but then she doesn’t. “I suppose you are right about that, as it is nearly April,” she says. Then she pats his shoulder once and walks two steps from the table. She stops and turns, and it feels to Harry like all the Gryffindors wait in silence for her to finish. “Feel free to sleep in the Gryffindor common room again, Harry,” she eventually says. “These days we’re locking down the castle as early as eight in the evening, and I don’t want you to feel you have to leave before then.”

Harry nods at her. He feels another blush rise. He should have known she’d figure out he’s here most Friday and Saturday nights. Showing up after dinner clearly hasn’t been fooling anybody. Not even Malfoy, Harry realizes, as he sees Malfoy quickly look away from him and McGonagall.

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On a gorgeous, warm September day, Harry and Ginny go flying for an hour or two over the Hogwarts grounds.

They have such fun, but it is just as Harry had feared. Even on a perfect day, doing something they both love, with no one else around and nothing but happiness between them… there is still nothing but happiness between them. The desire to kiss Ginny, the need to keep her from other boys, the smug conviction that she is the prettiest girl he knows… it is all gone. 

“You make me so happy,” Ginny says to him after they land. She has taken his hand, and he doesn’t understand why she wants to hold it when he’s sure it feels like a damp noodle.

Harry can tell when Ginny senses the change in his mood, because her smile fades. But neither of them says anything, and – as they take a long, silent walk toward Gryffindor Tower – Harry pushes himself to say the words he’s been gearing up to say for weeks. He finally manages to speak right before they reach the portrait hole.

“Can I… can we…” He motions her toward a slightly more private section of wall. “I’ve been trying….” He puts the broom against the wall and looks up, because looking Ginny in the eye will mean no words come out of his mouth.

“I need to break up with you.” He says it fast.

Ginny looks _angry_. 

“I just…. I don’t think this is… right anymore. Not for either of us.” Harry cringes because he’s pretty sure he isn’t really making sense. Not out loud, anyway, it all makes sense in his head.

“Well, it still feels fine to me, Harry, so I would appreciate knowing what you mean by ‘not right’.” Ginny’s hands are on her hips, her eyes are ablaze, and Harry feels a large hollow space in his chest where a monster once resided.

Two extremely curious first years walk by, and Ginny waits in silence for Harry to say something. But even after the two eleven year olds are inside the portrait hole, Harry remains silent.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” Harry finally tries, but then, over Ginny’s head, he sees a flash of yellow light, and he forgets what he was trying to say (he had such a tenuous hold on the ideas anyway, that it isn’t surprising). “Did you see that?” he says, pointing up.

“Don’t be a _coward_ , Harry Potter,” Ginny grinds out in her fiercest voice, and he turns to her in shock.

“What? What does that have to do with that yellow flash? There was a flash, it was over your head!”

“You are _making shit up_ now?” She says it with complete conviction, and Harry feels his mouth open. 

“Fine, be an arse,” she says, and picks up her broom; turns to walk away. “Any boy who has to _distract me with bullshit_ in order to avoid _breaking up with me_ is not a boy who is worth my time. Even if he is Harry Potter.” She flips her hair and the light catches it. It looks nothing like the flash he’d seen up near the ceiling.

Harry Floos home to Grimmauld Place early that weekend.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He tries to talk about it with Molly and Arthur the next evening over Sunday dinner, but it’s like they can’t hear a word he says. When he leaves they clearly still think he belongs at the Auror Academy, and that he is still dating their daughter, even though he’d said (out loud and everything) that he and Ginny had broken up. “Are they even listening to a word I say?” Harry finds himself speaking out loud as he exits his Floo. “Maybe I just didn’t say it right?” It really doesn’t make a bloke feel like he knows how to communicate.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The second time he sees a random glint of light in a corridor ceiling, Harry is arguing with Neville again about the Auror Academy. Harry’d been thrown off guard when he realized that not only were Ron and Hermione going back to school, but so were Neville and Dean. He couldn’t understand why they weren’t going to the Auror Academy. They had suffered so much during the war. Didn’t they feel obligated to protect the world now? He’d taken it up with both of them on quite a few visits to Hogwarts. When he notices a light twinkle above him he stops walking; but Neville keeps going, refusing to look up. “Neville!” Harry calls, but Neville just waves a hand back at Harry as he is walking away – like one would brush off a fly.

Not wanting to return to Gryffindor Tower right after Neville has dismissed him, Harry tries to take refuge in the Owlery. But the owls are flapping and diving at him. (Maybe it’s because Hedwig died, so he isn’t used to owls anymore.) He stays only a few moments. Malfoy heads up the stairs as Harry heads down, and Harry tries hard to think of an excuse to speak to him, but nothing at all comes to mind. In the end, he just nods once, and feels like a fool.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Ever since Harry started hanging around Hogwarts again, he’s been watching Malfoy. He’d cautiously tried to bring Malfoy up with Hermione and Ron once or twice, but they quickly lost interest in discussing their old rival. Nonetheless, the more Harry surreptitiously watched Malfoy, the more he began to think Malfoy was changing: trying to become a decent person. But after the way Malfoy had treated Hermione, Ron, and Ron's whole family – well, Ron was uninclined to view Malfoy with anything but a heavily prejudiced eye. Add to that what happened to Hermione in Malfoy’s house, and it quickly began to feel like a lost cause to convince either of his best friends that Malfoy was anything other than who he had always been. Neville and Dean and Ginny, too; they all got exasperated and even bored if Harry tried to talk about Malfoy.

But Harry saw things anyway. He saw Malfoy being gentle with first year Slytherins. He saw Malfoy choosing not to engage when people insulted him. He saw Malfoy stick near teachers rather than tempt violence from people who seemed eager to indulge in it. And all this witnessed just on weekends. Harry is pretty sure that if he were living at Hogwarts full time he’d have been able to collect ten times as much evidence of Malfoy’s change of heart and behavior.

Even if Ron does think it’s all crap.

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“I don’t know, Andromeda.” Harry can’t look at her face, so he traces swirls on a corner of the picnic table with his index finger. The table is groaning with casseroles and cakes, brought by many dozens of mourners. How could the day of Fred’s funeral have such perfect weather? Cheerful yellow May sunshine feels completely wrong. It should be pissing rain. “You feel that strongly about it?”

Harry can see Andromeda nod in his peripheral vision. He frowns involuntarily, then wipes it off his face. Andromeda has lost too much to suffer his disrespect.

“We _all_ think it’s important for you to go to the Auror Academy, Harry.” She sounds certain, firm. He wishes he had that confidence.

“My daughter, her husband… so many died, Harry. By heading directly to The Academy, you not only honor their sacrifices, you _validate_ them. It’s what both of your parents did, you know. The moment they finished Hogwarts. I know you’ll do the right thing. Molly and Arthur and Kingsley and I. The four of us had dinner last night so the Weasleys wouldn’t have to be alone. We _all_ know you will do the right thing, the way you always do.” Andromeda put a hand on Harry’s hand, stilling his nervous movements and causing him to finally look up from the table. “You’ve always made us so proud.”

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“I know it was a little embarrassing,” Hermione says as the trio is finishing dinner. “But now you don’t have to hide from McGonagall. It will make your weekend visits a lot more comfortable, now that you know she knows. Don’t you think?” They all stand up and walk out of the Great Hall.

Even though she just asked Harry a question, Hermione smiles at Ron as though he is the only person on earth. Now Ron puts his arm around her in the most proprietary way. Harry steps back a bit, to walk behind them. He feels like an intruder.

Then he sees it, down at the end of the hallway. “Didn’t you see that?” (Surely no one could miss that flash.)

Halfway through his sentence Harry realizes his mistake. Ron and Hermione not only ignore him, they start snogging. In the main hallway. In front of him! If he’d thought his encounter with McGonagall half an hour ago would make them feel more sympathetic to his loneliness, he was obviously wrong. He decides to head back to the Tower without them. “Hey Neville,” he calls out, and Neville lets him catch up.

“They’re really into each other this year,” Harry says, indicating Ron and Hermione. (Still snogging! Merlin!)

“It’s sweet,” Neville says, and Harry just nods at him. It’s this post war thing. Everyone seems to be going out with someone. Everyone but Harry. 

“I don’t really understand why you and Ginny aren’t going out together anymore, you know,” Neville says. “It’s good for everyone, I think. I love seeing all these happy couples, and people moving on – improving the world, making it like it used to be.”

Neville smiles toward the window but doesn’t stop walking. “Did I tell you I asked Hannah Abbot to go to Hogsmeade with me yesterday?” Neville keeps talking to Harry, even though Harry’s footsteps are lagging a bit as he looks up at the ceiling.

“I had a really nice time. She said she did, too. Come on, Harry. I’m heading for the library. Hannah’s waiting for me there. She’s sitting with some girlfriends. You should come along.”

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The weekend after he breaks up with Ginny, Harry sees glints and flashes multiple times. He sits in the Gryffindor common room before lunch that Sunday and tries to interest Hermione and Ron in tracking down a cause, but they say they are too busy with all the extra work of being Head Girl and Boy.

“It is all to the good that life can go back to normal,” Hermione says, and she puts her hand on Harry’s knee and looks at him, sincere and mollifying. Harry feels like a shamed puppy. “I know you decided to skip this year,” Hermione continues, “but Ron and I want to make the most of this. We’ll never be at Hogwarts again, Harry. We’re Head Boy and Girl! We want to have a really amazing year. A happy year! A _normal_ year. I’m sure you can understand that.” She gives him a huge grin and Harry tries to agree with her.

It’s pretty clear his best friends suspect him of pining for the old days when they had genuine mysteries to solve and the three of them all needed each other. Maybe he is. Mostly, though, he doesn’t want to think about how much time they seem to spend snogging. He doesn’t like feeling like a third wheel.

“Of course, Hermione,” Harry says, but they are both looking at Ron. Harry gets the impression Ron hasn’t heard a word Hermione has said. He simply looks besotted.

“I know you’re only here most weekends, but there are lots of ways for you to have a normal Hogwarts social experience, for once,” Hermione says brightly. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with you and Ginny, but there are so many nice, smart girls here this year who would be receptive if you asked them to Hogsmeade or something.” Hermione smiles at Ron again, and he nods as though he’d heard what Hermione had said.

Which is bullshit, because when Ron is paying attention he gets annoyed that Harry broke up with Ginny, even though Ginny has told both Ron and Hermione several times that it was the right thing for her. “He’s not my happy ending,” she likes to say.

Harry sighs. He’s a third wheel again. He heads out to the lake, but after seeing a second wolf at the tree line (in broad daylight?) he heads back to the castle. Feeling alienated, he thinks to ask the Fat Lady about the flashes of light (but she won’t talk to him), or Sir Cadogan (but he can’t seem to hear).

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Ron and Hermione really are awfully wrapped up in each other, so it’s a good thing Harry has lots of other reasons to spend his entire weekend at Hogwarts – even if he only sees the mysterious flashes there. Even if no one else does.

He’s in the library with Creevey one Sunday morning in November, trying to help the kid learn first year Arithmancy. (It’s weird how obvious certain parts of it are to Harry when he’s never studied it before. Creevey has lost so much, and Harry is happy to give what he can.)

“What was that flash?” Harry bursts out when something flashes right above their table.

“What?” Dennis says, distracted. “Did you see something?” He runs both hands through his hair in frustration and Harry plasters on a fake smile and bends back toward the textbook.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The next weekend Harry is walking past the Great Hall with Luna after the Quidditch match when he sees a bright flash over the heads of the Ravenclaws in front of them. “Did you see that?” Harry cries, too loud for a crowd of Ravenclaws after they’ve been crushed by Slytherin. Several people glare at him. But Luna smiles, and for a moment, Harry thinks she saw it too.

“My raven hat is sparkling, I know. Isn’t it lovely?” Luna takes her enormous hat off and smiles serenely at it. Harry tries to regain his own smile. Luna’s hat is sparkling, because Luna’s gone and covered the thing with hematite and jet. Both seekers had tried to get Hooch to make Luna hide it away. But he’s sure that isn’t what he saw.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Romilda Vane tells him it’s just the Black Lake sparkling through the window. “It’s finally sunny today!”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The Patil twins are sure he saw a ghost. “The Grey Lady has taken to wearing that diadem you destroyed during the Final Battle, did you know?”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Terry Boot says it’s just his Muggle watch catching the light. “It was my Grandfather’s watch. I keep it very well polished. See the inscription on the back?”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Ron and Hermione are just always snogging when Harry sees something.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Once Harry sees Malfoy walking, wand out, and has a sudden, inexplicable desire to ask _him_ about the flashes. He had returned the wand to Malfoy the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, (thankfully) before anyone could get in his face about it needing to be in a museum or some such bollocks. Ron suggests Malfoy doesn’t really deserve to have it back, right after Harry finally wakes up after that first intense sleep, and Harry reacts with anger and finds Malfoy right away, before either of them even leaves Hogwarts.

The Marauder’s Map shows Malfoy in the Slytherin common room, sitting between his mother and father. So Harry throws his shoulders back, walks past Ron, and heads down there. He can’t get into the room, so he knocks on the entrance, and – luckily – it’s Malfoy himself who opens the common room to him.

Harry sticks the wand out, toward Malfoy, who looks at it blankly, as though he has been through so much lately that he can’t comprehend what Harry is offering.

Harry can relate.

“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” Harry says gruffly, and motions for Malfoy to grab it away from him. He makes it fairly easy for Malfoy to pull it from his hand, hoping that will be enough for Malfoy to use his own wand again, but only that one. He doesn’t want to give Draco mastery of the Elder Wand again, but surely there is a middle ground? Then he walks away before Malfoy can speak. He doesn’t want to hear Malfoy say anything, not even “Thank you.”

But he smiles when – in his peripheral vision, walking away briskly – he sees the sparks Malfoy casts down the hallway.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He’d been approached about the wand since then, and – as incapable of saying “no” as he’d since become – he is still glad that he’d gotten that taken care of so quickly, before the confusion set in. He’d actually gone so far as to claim he’d destroyed it. Because, as far as he is concerned, the thing they were asking after doesn’t exist anymore. Hasn’t existed since Malfoy took it from his hand.

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Even after all these months, the glints of light Harry is seeing more and more often, generally in random corners up by the ceiling (usually in corridors), seem to be visible to no one but himself. Or, if a student does admit to seeing something, Harry is inevitably told “but I’m sure it’s nothing.” Harry honestly isn’t sure if they believe that, if they are placating him, or if they don’t want him involved.

Harry is finding it increasingly hard to believe the lights are “nothing.” But what’s causing them? Maybe now that he knows McGonagall knows how often he’s actually there, he’ll brave her office and ask her.

What’s far worse, however, is how much he dreads leaving Hogwarts after dinner on a Sunday. He’s got to show up at the Auror Academy on Monday morning or he’s pretty sure they’ll kick him out (he’s missed far too many days as it is). But no matter how many times he promises himself that he’ll start to feel good about it _any day now_ – or reassures himself that it _really is_ where he belongs – his thoughts ring hollow even as he thinks them. Not even his dueling or weight-training classes (the best parts of the Academy, hands down) are enough to make him really want to be there for the rest of it. Even though he hasn’t yet lost a single duel.

But he had been right when he told McGonagall that it was too late for him to go back to Hogwarts full time. Hell, she’d even agreed with him.

Harry’s pretty sure a “real” Auror wouldn’t ignore a mystery like those lights, but he’s half afraid that everyone else is right and the flashes _are_ nothing. Could he be making this stuff up because he misses having a Hogwarts mystery to solve? Hermione seems to think so. By Friday mornings he’s usually convinced himself that it’s all nonsense. Then he gets to Hogwarts for dinner, sees one twinkle, and is convinced all over again.

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The summer sun shone cheerfully as Harry entered the Hogwarts grounds through the large, open gate. He hadn’t been here in a couple of months, and it felt remarkably good to walk through them again. It felt a little less like coming home than he had expected it to, but still, he grinned widely to see how perfect everything seemed today.

He looked over to see all the house pennants flying over the newly snazzed up Quidditch pitch. The hoops had all been replaced, and some of the bleachers as well. The whole castle was gleaming outside. The professional crews the Ministry had hired to repair all the war damage had not just repaired broken walls, Harry realized, they had scrubbed the whole building down, and every stone shone in the sunshine.

Between the Quidditch pitch and the grand front doors were what looked like a few hundred empty chairs, all pointing earnestly at a stage that was also flying all the house flags. The podium on the stage looked most impressive, and though Harry couldn’t yet be certain, he thought the seal of the Ministry was affixed to the front of it. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on the edge of his sleeve. This formal robe Hermione and Ginny had helped him pick out was really awfully nice. It was a light cotton – perfect for a hot summer day like this. It was even Gryffindor red, with little touches of gold.

Once his glasses were back on, Harry stopped walking and looked around for McGonagall. He’d deliberately come to the Grand Re-Opening ceremony very early; telling the Weasleys and his other friends to meet him there. He had something he wanted to ask the headmistress.

Finally he spotted her. She was talking with someone. A man, he thought, from the cut and color of his clothing. He headed toward them. They stood off to the side – away from everything, and as Harry approached he thought to allow them some privacy. He meandered off to the side a bit, where he thought neither of them would notice him, and waited for them to complete their conversation.

Just when Harry thought he might need to check his watch – he really needed to talk to McGonagall before anyone else got her attention – Harry saw the two people nod at one another and separate. McGonagall headed for the stage, and the man she had been talking to headed for the castle. 

Harry could get a better look at him now, and he realized it was the new Chief Auror: Robards. Avoiding Robards’ gaze, Harry hurried to meet McGonagall and it wasn’t long before she noticed him heading her way.

“Harry,” she said formally. “Happy birthday. I am so pleased that we were able to get all this work done in time to celebrate Hogwarts on this auspicious day.”

“I, well, it really wasn’t necessary, but thank you,” Harry said, feeling a bit ridiculous about all the fuss. Before this grand re-opening ceremony had been scheduled (on his birthday? really?) he’d been planning something really small with Molly at the Burrow. Just the Weasleys, and a few more friends his age, like Neville, Luna, Dean and Hermione. Now he had to do this all day, instead.

“I really wanted to ask you something,” Harry barrelled ahead, wanting to make sure he didn’t miss his chance or lose his nerve. McGonagall nodded once, so Harry asked the question he had been crafting in his head for two days. “Will the returning eighth years have a chance at being chosen Head Boy? Or Girl?” He plastered a hopeful grin on his face and tried not to look particularly anxious. As little as he had wanted his birthday turned into a huge spectacle, this was Hogwarts, and he was here. With bells on, practically. He loved this place. And – despite not being sure it he could handle it – he wanted to be Head Boy, like his father had been. 

He waited for McGonagall to answer.

“I have already chosen the Head Boy and Girl,” McGonagall said slowly, “but I am surprised you care to know. I understood you to be enrolling in the Auror Academy?”

Harry stared at McGonagall, caught off guard. He’d received the same invitation letter that Ron and Hermione had, and Hermione had insisted that they all return. “You can become an Auror next year, Harry,” she had said, and that was all it took to convince him. Of course he wanted one last, normal, happy year at Hogwarts. He thought McGonagall would understand that.

Instead, she was telling him that Ron had been chosen as Head Boy, and Hermione as Head Girl, and that once he had joined the Auror Academy he was permitted to stop by on occasional weekends, every once in a while, should he like to.

Harry nodded dumbly and pretended to smile at her. “I think I see Percy Weasley over there,” he finally said. “I should go say hello.”

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Harry wakes up late on Monday morning and rushes himself into his robes and into the Floo. He makes it to class on time, though only just barely. He’s still searching his bag for a quill when Instructor Murble asks him a question.

“Harry Potter should know this one,” Murble says, still sounding delighted by the words, even after months of this crap. Harry finds a quill and sits up, trying not to look either tired or grumpy. _You chose to be here, Harry,_ he reminds himself firmly. _This is an honor._ He sits up straighter and tries to give the instructor a confident look, as though he _wants_ to be singled out. Constantly.

“Mister Potter, please name three poisons that are spread by contact, have no scent, and no tint.” Instructor Murble smiles indulgently, as though this sort of question is easy to answer. Perhaps it would be, if Harry had finished the reading.

“Well,” Harry says, stalling, and wondering why he had once again spent his weekend helping the remaining Creevey learn his Arithmancy. “That’s relevant because, during the first Voldemort War,” Harry pauses to let the inevitable shiver run through his classmates’ spines. Most of them still can’t say “Voldemort” and none of them like to hear the moniker spoken aloud. “Er, the Associate Minister of Wand Regulation was murdered by a Death Eater who shook his hand while wearing a poisoned glove.”

Murble grins at Harry and nods. Harry tries to remember the name of the poison that killed the wand regulator. “In that instance,” Harry pauses, “the relevant poison is, er, Moonseed Poison. In that instance.”

Murble seems to release a small breath. “Correct, Harry!” she says, as though he hadn’t neglected to give two thirds of the information she’d requested. “And the extra information is also correct! Associate Minister Fardisworthy was indeed murdered by contact poison transferred off a glove.” Words begin appearing on the blackboard behind the instructor, and the Auror students begin dutifully writing them down.

Harry sighs as Murble lectures on about contact poisons, ways to detect them in advance, and ways that Aurors have to be “constantly vigilant.”

Part of him thinks, mutinously, that he escaped and defeated Voldemort multiple times without knowing any of this shit. Not to mention he’d hardly been “constantly vigilant.” But he grits his teeth again and says nothing, taking copious notes instead.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A placating letter comes back from McGonagall on Monday afternoon. Harry is walking back after eating lunch at a Muggle Asian buffet restaurant where he is (so far) guaranteed not to run into any Auror classmates. As soon as he steps back into wizarding territory, an owl alights on his shoulder and sticks out her leg. Taking the letter, Harry pets the owl and pulls one (only slightly linty) owl treat from his Muggle-style backpack. The owl hoots politely and takes off into the sky as Harry reads the letter.

“Thank you for your concern. … Professors and I have seen nothing. … All is well and normal once again. … If anything were in need of our attention we would take care of it at once. … The war is over, you won it, we are grateful. … Happy ending. … Again, we are touched by your concern. … Sincerely, Headmistress M. McGonagall.”

Crumpling up McGonagall’s parchment, Harry stuffs it in his pocket and refuses to meet anyone’s eye. One class left, then he can go home for the day and maybe catch up on his reading.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

After his defence class, however (all theory, no wands – not yet), Harry can’t bear to go directly home and start in on his neglected textbooks. “No, thanks,” he mumbles to someone he thinks might be asking him for something. “Need to walk home.” Ducking his head to avoid his classmates’ eyes, Harry heads out into the street and makes a beeline for the Muggle world.

Once he’s made it into a thoroughly Muggle area, Harry finally lifts his head to look about. He vaguely knows where he is, but he deliberately takes a different route every time he goes home on foot. His Aunt and Uncle had said all manner of contradictory things about London when Harry was younger, and between their vague appreciation for the city’s wealth and history, and their disdain for the city’s “nasty” aspects, Harry had grown to think quite highly of his nation’s capital. Now that he can live here, he feels a need to learn the city well. Especially the Muggle parts.

Today he is rubbernecking up at a tall, stone building with a myriad of mullioned windows, when he turns a corner and realizes he is admiring a university library. A hand lettered sign outside beckons to “ **All** Students,” offering free tutoring and other academic assistance. On a whim, Harry steps in and looks for the signs leading him to the tutors. On the third floor, he finds three young women and a young man, all around his age (or maybe slightly older). Two of the tutors are helping students, but the handsome young man is sitting alone, and he catches Harry’s eye. His nametag declares, “Hi! My name is William.” He looks tall, even sitting down. He’s thin with broad shoulders, and his straight blond hair shines a little under the library’s abundant fluorescent lighting.

Smiling nervously, Harry edges over and tries to think of an excuse to take up William’s time. He does technically qualify as “a student,” but he’s hardly a regular Muggle university bloke. Then he remembers trying to help Dennis Creevey that past weekend, and an idea pops into his head and almost as immediately out of his mouth. “I’ve been trying to help my cousin Dennis with maths,” he begins, and William looks up into Harry’s eyes and smiles.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

One by one, the other three tutors pack their satchels and leave, waving goodbye to William. Harry has a thousand questions, however, and William seems to hold all the answers. The penciled equations cover more and more file paper. Harry hasn’t smiled this much in months. His mouth is starting to ache from it.

The library is darkened and quiet when finally, Harry looks at William sideways. “You’re going easy on me, aren’t you?”

“No!” William says, looking and sounding both upset and sincere, and Harry feels William’s indignation like a shove to the gut.

“But then,” Harry frowns in confusion and looks down at the stack of file paper between himself and William. It’s covered with stuff he understands easily, but hadn’t seen before today. “Then why is this all so _easy_? I’ve never been much of a student. Maths were always so _hard_ … before.” Harry trails off awkwardly when he realizes he’s talking about primary school. He can’t accidentally let slip that he hasn’t studied maths since he was ten!

“Maybe you just didn’t have a good teacher before,” William teases, and Harry feels a flipping sensation under his lungs that is surprisingly exciting. He can’t think of a thing to say.

“Seriously, though,” William says, leafing through the pages they’ve been writing on, “I’ve never seen anyone take to algebra or geometry so quickly. You say you’ve never studied any of this before?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry admits. He considers telling William he’s studying to become a police officer, since he sort of is, but then he decides this is dangerous. He has no idea what one studies to become an actual bobby, and for all he knows, William’s got them in his family or something.

“My schooling’s been, er, unconventional,” Harry finally says.

“You been home schooled or something?” William says, looking curious.

“Basically, yeah,” Harry lies, and then he looks at the table. He doesn’t like lying. His eyes move unbidden to the now illegible scar on his right hand. Interacting with Muggles is tricky, though.

“So, er, the library is about to close,” William says, sounding a bit shy, and he slides a book into his own backpack. “Want to go, er, get a coffee, or something?”

Harry’s heart skips a beat. He realizes, to his surprise, that he would love to get a coffee with William. But he will have to think about what that means later, because right now William has picked up on his excitement and is smiling at him.

“I’d love to, but….” Harry pauses, trying to think of a suitable excuse.

“Boyfriend waiting?” William says, a little more quietly than before.

“Nuh, no,” Harry stumbles, and he can feel his ears getting hot. “No, er, no boyfriend.” Now his cheeks are warm. “It’s, er, the dog.” Oh Merlin, Kreacher will kill him if he ever finds out Harry is pretending he’s a pet. “He’s been inside for hours. Lost track of time; I really _must_ walk him.”

“Oh,” William says softly, and now he’s smiling again. He’s looking at the table, though. “Maybe Wednesday then, you might like to come back and, er, learn a bit more geometry?” William fiddles with his shirt cuff. Harry is dismayed to find it adorable.

Harry feels his entire face and neck go hot now, and he tries to say no. No, he’ll never come back. “That sounds really nice,” he says instead. He attempts to backtrack. “I’ll _try_ to be here.” Harry looks into the dark outside the window. That really isn’t backtracking at all. He glances at William, and sees he is blushing a little, too.

He manages to escape the library without promising anything else, and as soon as he feels hidden, he _Apparates_ to his own doorstep. Eating the dinner Kreacher made for him, Harry distracts himself with review.

That night he goes to bed with a raging erection. Normally he gets off to fantasies of a blonde girl sucking his cock. A blonde girl who is on her knees in front of him, and therefore all he can see is the top of her head. Tonight though, she keeps morphing into William (also a blond, after all), and instead of seeing only a head and maybe a hand, the William he can’t stop imagining likes to look up at Harry. And likes to stroke his own cock. And Harry can’t stop imagining him stroking it.

Harry is so uncomfortable that it takes a very, very long time to come. He finally gives in: fantasizing William masturbating while he sucks Harry’s cock. Harry comes like a monk in a whorehouse.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Tuesday at the Auror Academy is positively awful. The entire day drags and Harry speaks to no one except instructors who all want to call on him. Luckily, he’d mostly caught up on his reading Monday night, so he probably doesn't look as stupid as he feels.

That night he masturbates to images of William straight away, but his orgasm is half what it was the night before, like something is wrong.

Wednesday, hideously, is even slower than Tuesday. Harry can’t stop thinking about William, and what it _means_ that he can’t stop thinking about William.

Harry’s not stupid. He’s caught himself ogling boys before. But this is the first time he can’t manage to explain his interest away as something else. _Oliver Wood_ wasn’t exciting; that was purely because of Quidditch. Cedric _Diggory_ wasn’t exciting; that was just because of the tournament. Charlie Weasley wasn’t exciting, that was the _dragons_. The Half Blood _Prince_ wasn’t exciting. He was essentially a creature completely of Harry’s imagination. And he’d been brilliant at potions, which before always made Harry feel inept and powerless. So those things could all be explained.

And Draco Malfoy was definitely not exciting. That was only because they were at each other’s throats. And because he was trying to kill Dumbledore and let Death Eaters into the school. And because he was such an arse. (No one would bother denying Malfoy drove Harry spare.) And for absolutely no other reason. Not ever.

Only maybe Harry had been pretending. Because William is just an ordinary Muggle bloke, but Harry finds him extremely exciting. Yes, the maths too, but Harry can separate them, and he knows (to be honest with himself) he needs to. He swallows hard, and walks into defence class. Maybe if he hides in the back Instructor Withwyck won’t call on him for everything.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

By the time Harry’s able to escape the Academy, he’s promised himself that he will absolutely not go see William. But his feet somehow walk him directly to that damn university library again.

“It can’t hurt to learn more maths,” Harry tells himself.

But when William (he’s sitting alone now, no other tutors about) sees Harry and opens his whole face up into a brilliant smile, Harry feels like a complete arse. Fascinating as algebra has legitimately turned out to be, that’s not what brought his feet here, and that’s not why William is smiling like that.

It’s almost like there has long been a box in the middle of the room that is his head, and he’d left it closed forever, not wanting to be certain of what was in there. But then he met William and tripped right over the box. So all the stuff he knew damn well was in there came spilling out all over the floor, and now Harry has to deal with it whether he likes it or not.

But even if Harry wants to start seeing boys (and after two days and nights of wrestling with these new feelings, Harry can admit that he wants to start seeing boys), Harry just can’t go out with a Muggle. He hates lying, he finds evasiveness nearly impossible, and magic is now so deeply and inextricably woven into his life that he’d either destroy every last intent of the Statute of Secrecy within hours, or he would come across as a complete serial-killer sociopath within minutes.

Harry braces his shoulders and goes to tell William part of the truth.

“Hi, Harry,” William says, a little breathy, and Harry sits quickly, before his knees get any stupid ideas about wobbling.

“William,” Harry says uncomfortably, and he pulls his chair backwards enough to turn sideways and look William in the eyes. “I need to say, I’m just here for the algebra.”

“Oh!” William says, and his cheeks flush a bright red. “Well, of course you are! I mean….”

Harry almost puts a hand on top of William’s to hush him, but at the last moment realizes what a terrible idea that is. He turns the gesture into a weird little wave instead.

“I need to thank you,” Harry starts again. “For helping me admit to myself, for the first time that, er, I’m interested in boys.”

“Ohh,” William breathes out slowly. A look of sad understanding comes across his eyes.

“So you see,” Harry finishes awkwardly, “I’m not ready to see any actual boys quite yet.” Harry looks at his hands, braced innocuously on his knees, and wants to tell William the whole truth. “If I were, though...”

William quickly interrupts. “No false hopes.”

“But maybe some geometry?” Harry asks. “If that isn’t too awkward?”

“Of course not,” William says, sounding slightly forced.

But after only a few minutes into the new equations, Harry has nearly forgotten the awkwardness he’d been feeling. He has never, not in his entire life, felt this way about anything academic. Maths – it turns out – are a puzzle he untwists with his mind. Maths are purely logical in a way that involves nothing subjective. No human psychology, no history, no figuring out what Dumbledore might be hinting at or what objects Voldemort might believe to be important and where he might have randomly chosen to hide them. Numbers simply are, and no matter what you call them, no matter how you write them, they are innocent, solid, and true.

It’s amazing.

Harry can’t believe he never got the chance to do any of this before, and if he weren’t having so much fun learning all this stuff now, he would be feeling a bit cheated for having missed it all these years.

“Well, that’s all.” William eventually says, after Harry finishes another equation without William needing to explain much of anything.

“What do you mean, ‘that’s all’?” Harry asks, laughing a bit, eager to learn a new method for solving something he’s never before considered.

“We’ve pretty much hit the ending of what I know well enough to teach,” William says ruefully. “I think you just learned three years of maths in two nights. Honestly, I have never seen anything like this before.” He scratches his head. “You are ridiculously smart.”

Harry flushes hot. “Maybe at this?” he concedes. (Three years of maths? Really?) “But not usually.”

“I know you’ve been home schooled,” William says, ignoring Harry’s protests, “but I want to help you take your GCSEs and apply to University. You need to get a degree in mathematics. You need to be solving _new_ stuff.” William’s face is set with determination, as though Harry is arguing. Harry wants to, but he can’t think of a thing to say. GCSEs? University? Muggles?

“I guess it’s a lot to think about,” William says, and he scribbles some words and numbers on the back of a sheet of paper that has one large equation covering the front. “Give it some time, if you need to. I’m going to tell my advisor about you, though, and I really hope you’ll get in touch with someone from the administration. I’ve put my favourite maths professor’s name and number on here, and the main line for the university front office. I only have those two numbers memorized, but that should be good enough, I should think.” William circles the name and number as he tells Harry a bit about the professor. 

“I didn’t put my own name and number here,” William continues, “because this has nothing to do with, you know, asking you out for a coffee. This is really about, just, maths. You’re a brilliant student. I think you should come here. Or even somewhere better.” He flushes and looks at the table. “I’d never get into Oxford or Cambridge, but you might be able to. Though the lack of formal schooling could be too much of an obstacle.” William slaps the table lightly and starts putting his books away. He leaves the equations out for Harry.

“But I know this is a lot to think about, and I bet your dog is waiting up for you again, so I’ll be heading back to my rooms to do my own review.” William stands up and sticks out a hand. Harry shakes it, a little overwhelmed by William’s idea. He is still sitting there, surrounded by equations, when William vanishes behind the heavy door that leads to the stairwell.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Despite feeling self-conscious after that letter from the headmistress, Harry goes back to Hogwarts on Friday for dinner anyway. This time he strolls across the grounds, through the front door (which oddly, is surrounded by ravens and owls), and into the Great Hall like a student. He slides in next to Hermione and across from Seamus with a good view of McGonagall at the head table, as though challenging her to say anything.

Instead she just tips her head to him once, then ignores him.

“What is that about?” Hermione asks.

“I’m… not sure,” Harry dissembles. He stabs a green bean with his fork and wishes Hermione wasn’t always so damn observant.

“Then why do you look disappointed?”

“Yeah mate,” Ron says, then swallows his mouthful. He is leaning around Hermione. His hand is on Hermione’s thigh. “You look like someone else finished the shepherd’s pie before you could get any.” A look of discomfort passes swiftly over Ron’s face and he reaches to take another helping of the shepherd’s pie, even though he’s still got some left on his plate.

“Well,” Harry takes a deep breath, wishing they had seen a flash by now – even just one, “I sent McGonagall an owl this week, and she… dismissed my concerns. I guess I was hoping to talk about it with her in person, and I reckon that nod meant she has no intention of letting me.”

“Ah,” Hermione says and sips her pumpkin juice. She’s still leaning back so Ron can talk to Harry more easily. The two of them have all this unspoken language now. Harry wants to cringe at the look on Hermione’s face.

“Mm,” Ron says. Harry expects him to dive back into his dinner, but instead, he points a fork at Harry. “She doesn’t think those lights you think you’re seeing mean anything, either?”

“No.” Harry says, feeling sulky and wishing he could shut his friends up. They have no attention for him anymore, but those lights are real, and they mean something. He knows they do. He lived in this castle for six years without seeing them, and now they’re all over, and increasing. Why does no one else care?

He spends the rest of dinner ignoring the Gryffindors and counting flashes of light up by the ceiling. He sees at least four. Disturbingly, he thinks he catches Malfoy counting them as well. Malfoy’s blond hair shines in the false sunshine and Harry scowls.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

That night things really start to change. Again, no one else seems to notice, but Harry counts six flashes in the corridors as he walks back to Gryffindor Tower with his friends. He thinks to look into some portraits to see what they think, but this corridor seems to have nothing but still lifes and landscapes. Odd that he’d never noticed that before.

Harry sleeps on the couch in Gryffindor Tower when he’s visiting. It’s a good thing that couch is so comfortable, because these days he is on it every Friday and Saturday night. And even on post war Friday and Saturday nights, the common room is pretty quiet by midnight, and cleared out by one or two in the morning. Tonight, however, Harry can’t fall asleep for the noise. He lays his head down at 1am, and pulls a blanket fully over his head at around two in the morning, but the Gryffindors in the other corner of the common room keep him half awake all night long. Harry’s simply not able to silence the space under the blanket, and they seem unable to stop telling stupid jokes and making up bad limericks.

On Saturday morning, first Hermione and then Ron come downstairs to the common room with starry-eyed smiles, and Harry follows his best friends toward the Great Hall. Sullen and tired, he walks behind them, resenting their loving moods and nearly skipping feet. They keep stopping to _snog_. Harry walks into the Great Hall to snag some toast, and he has three pieces and two eggs before he realizes that Ron and Hermione are _still_ outside the doors, snogging and cuddling.

Harry walks out with a sausage in one hand. He has to cough before they even notice him standing there. “Didn’t you two want to have breakfast before we go to Hogsmeade?” he asks. He’d been looking forward to going with them. It’s finally April, and the weather looks fantastic.

“It’s only, well, Harry,” Ron tries, and Harry tries not to cringe. He knows what’s coming.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry interrupts before he can feel even worse, and his two best friends don’t even apologize, they just walk into the sunshine, arms wrapped around each other, heads tipped together. At least Hermione calls back with a “Thank you!” But, though her smile is dazzling, she is looking unwaveringly into Ron’s eyes.

So Harry spends Saturday just watching. He is pretty sure he’s never seen so much… skipping. Or heard so many bad jokes. And a lot of the seventh and eighth years are… cuddling. And more.

It isn’t as though people don’t couple up at Hogwarts; Harry has been seeing that for years. But he can’t quite remember seeing so much physical affection before. At least not outside the common rooms, certainly. But today students are snogging in the halls, sitting on each other’s laps at lunch, and (to his desperate embarrassment) Harry even sees a girl on top of a boy on the floor right outside the library. Thankfully they seem to be fully clothed.

He knows people have been getting together with something approaching frantic speed since the war ended, and of course beautiful weather always made the couples come out of the woodwork. That was true every year Harry had gone to Hogwarts. So between the two things, he supposes this explosion of snogging makes sense, but that doesn’t make him feel any less left out.

Harry normally stays at Hogwarts all weekend, but this time he escapes early, after yet another sleepless night. It’s a different group keeping him awake this time, and if he could get through McGonagall’s night protection wards, he would go home. Instead he leaves right after breakfast on Sunday.

The last straw isn’t even another sleepless night. No, the reason he leaves early is that during a breakfast where everyone seems to be acting half-insane (even the professors), the only person whose eyes still seem clear and whose actions still seem level-headed is Draco effing Malfoy. And that is definitely the only reason Harry stares at him.

Harry rushes home to Kreacher (who is quite surprised to see him) and spends the rest of Sunday watching telly and exercising.

Harry skips all his classes on Monday. Exhausted from two nights of almost no sleep, he goes to bed early, forgets to set his alarm, and when he wakes up two hours late, he just rolls over and goes back to sleep. An hour afterward he wakes up again and this time he can’t fall back to sleep, so (feeling guilty and stupid) he sends his Patronus to the Academy office to claim that he’s ill. “Sick of school, more like,” Harry sighs, and heads downstairs to see about breakfast.

Kreacher frowns at him, but doesn’t actually say anything, for which Harry is grateful. Harry mostly stares at his eggs instead of eating them. He should probably head back to Hogwarts and check on his friends. He doesn’t particularly want to get called out for skipping Auror school, though. He watches telly for an hour before an idea occurs to him, and he rummages through his dresser drawers for a few minutes before he finds a Fever Fudge. “New and improved! No more boils!” He slips a dressing gown on over his pyjamas, slides his invisibility cloak in one pocket and the Marauder’s Map in the other, then eats the first half of the sweet. It isn’t long before he feels hot, lethargic, and uncomfortable all over. Then he Floos over to the Hogwarts Hospital wing to find Madame Pomfrey.

All seems well with this plan at first – honestly he’d thought it was a bit brilliant – until he’s almost arrived at the Hospital Wing’s Floo. He can see it, he’s about to step through, he might trip but that will just add fuel to his little deception anyway, when the Floo suddenly belches real flame – enough to singe Harry’s clothing. Heart pounding, Harry throws himself from the fireplace and lands on the floor, looking for Pomfrey and wishing he hadn’t taken that damn Fever Fudge. His clothes are smoking in places and his left hip feels hot, so Harry rolls about on the stone for a moment, coughing from smoke inhalation and wondering where the hell Pomfrey is.

He looks for her, but instead of seeing Madame Pomfrey, he becomes pretty sure the bed in the furthest corner has two people in it, under a heaving sheet. They might be… having sex. It kind of sounds a little like sex, maybe? If he’d ever had it he would probably know for sure. He tears his eyes away in embarrassment.

He needn’t have bothered with the candied deception. Whatever is going on with everyone at Hogwarts, Madame Pomfrey is as affected as everyone else Harry has seen. She giggles at him, waves her wand toward him, and showers him with shiny confetti instead of a diagnostic or healing spell. Then, showering more confetti on the floor around her, she meanders away. Worried, Harry takes the other half of his Skiving Snackbox and transfigures his sooty pyjamas and dressing gown into clean denims, a t-shirt, and a hooded jumper. He swipes a pair of slippers from Pomfrey’s stash and transfigures those into a decent pair of trainers. Then he tries to send a hospital blanket through the Floo, but it burns to a crisp.

Now very nervous, Harry slides into the hallway, eager to get away from the couple in the far bed, but wondering what the hell he’s going to find.

Harry wanders the entire castle, becoming more and more shocked. The library is hosting some sort of sing-a-long. Madame Pince is not just tolerating it, she seems to be leading it. The little kids are in front, singing their heads off with joy, but in the back, Harry sees a girl he thinks is a sixth year snogging a boy he doesn’t recognize.

The Transfiguration classroom holds some sort of joke-telling contest. Headmistress McGonagall and the new Transfiguration professor, whose name is something like Zavrazin (he has a really unfamiliar accent, Harry thinks he’s from Ukraine) seem to be competing to see which of them can make the students in the room laugh harder.

Far more disturbing is the way McGonagall and Zavrazin are looking at each other. Harry stops in the hall and watches McGonagall step lightly over to Zavrazin and reach around to… did she just pat him on the rear?

Harry rushes past once he figures out what’s going on, lest he get suckered in and stuck listening like the rest of them. Is there such a thing as a cursed joke?

When Harry checks the Gryffindor common room it’s completely empty. Hopeful, he checks this Floo, too, but – while it doesn’t burn the pillow he attempts to send through – it doesn’t do anything else, either. McGonagall seems to have turned off the common room Floos. She told Hermione and Ron months ago that they would only be on during the weekends, so – while this is a disappointment – it’s not a surprise.

In the Great Hall, Harry finds a group of students and teachers eating cakes and pies and cookies. Every type of pudding seems to be heaped on the tables, and as he watches, he sees house-elves openly bringing more. He’s never seen a house-elf serve food in the Great Hall before! He catches one house-elf’s eye and tries to talk to her, but she giggles and vanishes, only to pop back into the Great Hall with a huge chocolate cake that looks, frankly, delectable. Harry rushes away before he can be tempted to eat any of it. What if the food is causing this madness all over the castle?

Heading toward the great wooden entrance doors, Harry looks around and realizes there’s another thing wrong. Upstairs, he'd thought the hall was full of landscapes and still lifes, but come to think of it, he hasn't seen a single portrait. When he really stops and thinks about it, he knows – he is certain – that this is not what he is actually seeing. This is a hallway full of abandoned portraits. Not a single person or animal is left in any of these frames. That meadow should have picnickers. That wingback chair should have a wizard or witch sitting near that table with fruit. Where have all the frames’ inhabitants gone?

Finally, Harry gets all the way outside only to find a large group of students casting flashy spells that light up the sky and threaten to set the inner courtyard’s grass on fire. Fireworks spells, confetti spells, spells that make the grass dance and spells that make tiny lightning storms a few feet off the ground. He’s less worried than he would normally be, because it’s heavily overcast. If they do start a fire, Harry thinks something is likely to come rain on it any minute.

But, trying to be reassured by this, Harry looks into the sky again, and realizes that no, he is actually _more_ worried, not less. Because the sky, too, has gone slightly insane. Small, dense (and, most odd of all) _colourful_ clouds hover about – some nearby, many more further away. From Hogsmeade, he suspects, Hogwarts will seem to have disappeared into a pink and orange fogbank.

Harry stares into this mess of crazy and tries to figure out what he’s missing. “Ron and Hermione should be helping me with this,” he mutters to himself. That’s it! Where are Ron and Hermione? And, for that matter, Ginny, Dean, Neville, Luna, and all the other seventh and eighth year students he can think of. They haven’t been taking his concerns seriously so far this year, but he knows they will now! He tries to remember if he saw any older students in any of the groupings he has so far run across, but he’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen a single person his own age yet.

Turning warily from the fireworks crowd, Harry heads back into the castle. He pulls the folded Marauder’s Map from his pocket and looks around the hallway for Filch or a teacher out of habit. Then he shakes his head at himself and taps on the map, telling it, “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

Harry has a moment to contemplate that saying as the map starts to come into focus. Is he actually up to no good? Or is he, perhaps, the only one in the entire castle that _isn’t_?

Ron and Hermione, to Harry’s discomfort, are in Ron’s private “Head Boy” bedroom. Apparently in the bed, too. But that’s barely the start of it. As best he can tell from the map, every single seventh and eighth year student in the castle is alone with (snogging with?) another seventh or eighth year student. Or, in the case of Dean, Seamus, and Lavender, with _two_ others. The only older teenager who isn’t paired up (other than Harry) is Malfoy. His is the only name in the Arithmancy classroom.

Harry could be wrong of course (maybe they are all just playing Exploding Snap? In boy-girl pairs? In closed-up, private spaces?), but for sure these pairs are alone in bedrooms, and their map dots aren’t far apart or pacing around. (Though some pairs seem to be rolling a bit.) Harry tears his focus from the map. He’s uncomfortable even thinking about this anymore.

A flash of light above Harry’s head catches his eye, and for once Harry decides he’s going to do something about it. If McGonagall or his friends disagree, well… then they can stop telling jokes and eating sweets and snogging and just tell him so, to his face. “The third wheel turns, for once,” Harry mutters fiercely.

He whips his wand out and stuns the space where he’s just seen the flash. To his shock, a largely blue and orange faerie falls from the ceiling like a dead weight. Harry catches her easily. Then he takes a good look at her. He’d be the first to admit that he doesn’t know much about faeries, but this one looks off to him, nonetheless. When Harry has seen pictures of faeries in books, they all looked like lovely young girls and boys with wings. This one, not so much.

For one thing, he’s pretty sure ordinary faeries have two wings, though four probably wouldn’t look wrong. Butterflies have four, and they look great. This faerie, however, has three wings. And she doesn’t look like a butterfly whose fourth wing is damaged or ripped off. The third, orange wing seems to be growing from the very center of her back. It is smaller than her other two (blue) wings, and shaped differently. In addition to this, her feet look twisted. Her blue clothes look like ripped rags. Frankly, this faerie looks… ill. Her fae face is greenish, all three of her wings are bedraggled, her nose is runny, and her tiny little belly seems distended.

If Harry didn’t think this was preposterous, he’d say she looked like a radiation victim from a science fiction film – like she is mutating to death.

Frowning, Harry looks about and sees an alcove to his left. There’s even a window seat with a pillow on it. He steps over and puts the faerie down on the pillow, hoping this will make waking more comfortable. He casts the tiniest, gentlest little _Rennervate_ he can, and she opens her eyes blearily to look him right in the face.

“අපි මධ්යම දිග කතා?” she says. She looks miserable.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “What did you say?”

“නර්තන සැලැස්ම කැන්වස් සවන?” she says now, and she struggles to get up onto her elbows.

“I can’t understand you,” Harry says, feeling useless. He’d thought English faeries spoke English.

“මෙහි මෝඩ වචන ප්ලෙන්ටි කරන්න.” She looks intent now, putting one hand out to him. He helps her sit up on the pillow and she grabs at her belly with the other hand. Breathing hard, she curls into herself for a moment and Harry lets her hold onto his finger. She takes a few deep breaths and then looks at him again.

“කෙටි උස හිස් ලැයිස්තුවක් ආදරය ඝන."

Harry shakes his head. He's finally found someone else who is taking this seriously, and – apparently – it's making her horribly ill.

“කෝප් කුකුළු මස් ආදරණීය මෝඩයා සිංගර් ඇහිඳ.”

Harry just stares at her, hoping that if she keeps talking it will eventually start to make sense.

“වෑන් සංගීතඥ මෙම කෙටි වාක්යයක්!”

Harry nods encouragingly, and the faerie cringes in pain before trying again. “අද හෙට ආදරණීය පයි පුඩිං කුෂන් මිහිරි පැණි රස කපුරු හරිත ටොන් දිගු තාරාවන් චිත්රපටය කැළලි කැම්පර.”

She takes a deep breath and Harry can see that she looks exhausted. “පරිකල්පනය වැඩසටහන් රැසක් ඔබ්බට විඳී චෙස් මණ්ඩල රජුගේ බිසව හිම වැටීම? හිමපතනය?”

Harry shakes his head and the faerie flashes a bright yellowish green, blinding him temporarily. Up close, these flashes of light are surprisingly intense, or at least this one is. When he can see again, the faerie looks extremely annoyed, despite still seeming to be in pain.

“ලොම් බැටළුවන් උදෙසා ආකාරය දක්වා?”

“I can’t understand a word you are saying,” Harry says, sensing her frustration with him.

“අපොයි!” The faerie says, very loudly for someone so small. “ය සිංගර් නම් කාන්තා?” She crosses her arms and glares, and flashes bright yellow again. “පහළ කරන්කතා යුදවාදී ඇස්වල කඳුලු උඩු යටිකුරු විය හැකි සවන් තරු නිදිමත හිම වැටෙන ආචාර කතා?”

Harry shrugs. The faerie sighs. She rolls onto her side and Harry looks into her tiny, rheumy eyes. Suddenly, she seems to have an idea. She curls toward Harry, raises her little hands, and begins to draw a pattern in the air. 

Wide-eyed, Harry watches as she creates an ever-widening shape in the air around him. She begins at the tips of the fingers of his right hand, and from there she creates what looks a bit like a spider web of glowing cracks. She leans back and pushes her fingers through the air, and the three dimensional picture she is creating expands outward from his right hand, fracturing and multiplying as she draws. She rests back on the pillow, tired but determined, slowly manipulating the air – and still more white cracks splinter outward, away from his fingers.

Captured by the vision, Harry wiggles his fingers and the fissures move along. Worried that the faerie will be annoyed at him for disturbing her illustration, he looks toward her, but to his surprise, she is smiling now. 

Encouraged, he moves his arm in a circle, and her picture expands exponentially – taking up most of the alcove and moving into the hallway. Harry takes a step, and the interwoven web of white cracks shoot to the floor and seem to go through. He looks upward and they shoot to the ceiling and again, they seem to go right through. They do not, however, go through _him_. Instead, when they get to him, they bend away again.

Moving his fingers, Harry tries to imagine what the sick faerie could be trying to tell him, but when he looks at her again, she’s falling asleep, her hands dropping down to the pillow. The white web of splinters begins to fade as Harry desperately grasps at potential meanings of her picture, but nothing comes to him.

“Thank you, faerie,” Harry whispers, and he steals a tassel from the pillow she’s on to transfigure it into a tiny blanket. He covers her with it and hopes some sleep will help her heal, then he turns toward the library again. He hopes he can find a way to study inside a raucous sing-a-long, because it looks like he has another Hogwarts disaster to solve.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The library is a bit odd, (as long as he ignores the singing, and the occasional calls to join in) as he can travel about freely and pick up any book he likes. He waltzes right into the Restricted Section without anyone making a peep, and he searches the shelves there for long minutes trying hard to find any titles at all that might be of assistance. By the time he’s done searching the library for anything – _anything_ – that might be of any use whatsoever, he has a massive stack of books sitting on a table in the back by the window.

But Harry is fooling himself, thinking he could study here. When he has finally searched every shelf, he has to admit that he couldn’t possibly concentrate on anything in a room this loud. Sighing, Harry walks over and looks out the window, wondering where he might actually be able to concentrate enough to do research – especially without Hermione’s assistance.

That’s when he sees the wolves. It’s the middle of the day, and Harry’s pretty sure the moon was merely a sliver last night (or was that the night before last?) but there are a few dozen wolves right outside the (thank Merlin, closed up) Hogwarts courtyard – and that’s only what he can see from this library window.

Tripping over a chair, Harry feels his first real spike of alarm. The Floos are broken, and that means to leave, he would have to walk to the outer gates. Perhaps more importantly, the Floos are broken, and that means that should anyone else wish to try to enter, they would have to walk up through the grounds from the outer gates. (Or perhaps he could fly a broom, but how high can a wolf jump? More to the point, how high can an _addled_ wolf jump? Because those clouds are frighteningly low, and he’s as uninclined to fly through pink and orange fog as he is to fly through a convention of wolves.) 

Harry still can’t _Apparate_ in or out of Hogwarts, and – as far as he knows, no one else can, either. (Unless McGonagall can? Headmaster Dumbledore seemed able. But McGonagall isn’t exactly in her right mind today.) He’s been walking and Flooing in and out all year, and it looks like now, he can’t do that. Not unless these wolves are unusually friendly. Every single one of them. He could – presumably – send someone a _Patronus_. But if no one can enter the grounds, what good would a _Patronus_ be? Oh, he could let people outside know that there’s a problem, but all that would do is create panic. Especially among parents.

No, Harry seems to be on his own.

He takes a deep breath and summons the huge stack of books to follow him from the library to… somewhere. Somewhere quiet. Out of the way. Where he can be particularly studious.

Suddenly, Harry has an idea and stops in the middle of the corridor right in front of the library’s main doors. The books smack into the back of his head, shoulders and back like a pile-up on the motorway. As Harry turns, wincing, to _levitate_ them back up, he firms his resolve around his new idea. He’s not, perhaps, completely alone. He pulls out the Marauder’s Map and checks it again. Yes, Malfoy is still in the Arithmancy classroom. Straightening his spine, Harry marches toward him, hoping Malfoy is alone because he is still sane, and not because his particular brand of crazy involves being alone to cry over… lost Hippogriffs or something.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Malfoy is too distracted to notice Harry quietly open the Arithmancy classroom door. As the door closes slowly behind him, blocking out the faint noises of firecrackers and jokes, Harry observes Malfoy. He is balancing precariously on the window’s narrow ledge, both of his hands on the glass, his feet turned to the side. He’s very tall now, and looks like a statue, standing in that window. His shoulders are broader than they used to be, but his waist and hips are still narrow and somehow his proportions are perfect. He is looking down, concern is etched on his pretty face. He holds the wand that killed Voldemort in his hand. As usual, Harry is secretly glad to see him with it.

He remembers another moment, a few months before, when he'd been waiting in the library for Hermione to finish an essay. He’d meandered around, silent, not wanting to bother anyone, and then he’d seen Malfoy with a tiny little Slytherin girl.

“I feel certain that you will be fine, Suma,” Malfoy had said to her, and she had looked up at Malfoy with real trust. Harry had swallowed and hidden behind a bookshelf.

“I knew your brother Kunal, you see,” Malfoy had told the little girl, and then he’d taken her hand in his and held it. “I remember when he got to Hogwarts, he was a year younger than me, and he was so proud to be a Slytherin, like both of your parents.”

The little girl had nodded, and Malfoy had smiled warmly. Harry had been a little amazed to see such gentle kindness on his face.

“He had trouble with Transfiguration, and Potions sometimes, but other Slytherins helped him, and he learned the basics quickly. And then last year, despite the war,”

“He got a great job, just on his OWLS,” the little first-year finished.

“And your parents are terribly proud, are they not?”

Little Suma nodded, and smiled a bit.

“Exactly,” Malfoy had said. “I think you will do just as well as Kunal, because just like your older brother, you are intelligent, ambitious, and a true Slytherin in all the best senses of our house.” Then Malfoy had raised his wand and pointed it at Suma, and just when Harry wondered if he needed to go rescue this tiny girl, her Slytherin emblems: the tie and robe patch, had glowed bright with magic. Harry looked as Suma grinned, a new height to her spine, and had seen the pride in her eyes. Her tie and patch looked as perfect as if she’d bought them that morning.

As little Suma walked away, a spring in her step, Harry saw a flash up by the ceiling. He almost sighed, until he looked down at Malfoy again. Malfoy was staring at the spot where Harry had seen the flash! No one else has ever admitted to him that they can see those! But apparently, Malfoy saw that one. Harry wonders, if he asked Malfoy a direct question, would he admit to having seen the flash, or would he, like everyone else, deny it had happened.

Harry wanders back into the stacks before Malfoy has a chance of seeing him there.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When Harry drops his enormous stack of library books on the table near the doorway, Malfoy starts and nearly falls off the window’s narrow ledge.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Malfoy snarls, carefully stepping to the floor. Harry sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair.

“At least you’ve not gone mad,” Harry says, ignoring Malfoy’s outburst. “Everyone else has.”

He turns his attention to the window near the classroom door, noting the streaks Malfoy left on the glass. Harry’d bet a Galleon Malfoy’s hands are sweating like mad, and he thinks he knows why. “Even the wolves, am I right? I saw a few dozen from the library window.”

Malfoy raises one side of his lip in a sneer, but his eyes still suggest panic.

“I’ve no idea what’s going on, Malfoy, but the Floos are all either turned off or dangerously broken, the fog’s turned pink and orange, and the wolves are trapping us in and the world out. A faerie tried to explain it to me, I think, except she was speaking gibberish. I couldn’t get a single English word out of her. Whatever is wrong, I think we’re stuck fixing it.” Harry sees Malfoy sneer again, and cross his arms over his chest. “We’re alone in this,” Harry adds, hoping it will soften Malfoy up enough to try and help.

Malfoy runs his hand through his hair and sits in a chair. He looks a little overwhelmed and angry, but he’s listening.

“I’ve just been through the stacks. Madame Pince is leading a sing-a-long, of all things, but no one stopped me from taking any book I could so much as whisper at.” Harry waves at the large piles of books he has now deposited on the back table, and can see the moment when they first register because Malfoy’s eyebrows both go up a millimetre. It gives Harry the first light feeling of hope he’s had since the Floo tried to kill him an hour or two ago.

When Malfoy’s eyes pass beyond Harry and over to the books, his face changes. It reminds Harry of the way Hermione looks at books. Malfoy looks first surprised, then hopeful, then intrigued, and then – thank goodness – determined. He stands up and walks over to a pile, picking up one, then another, then a third book. He looks at their titles, checks a table of contents here, an index there.

“It’s a start,” he says, snottily, and sits down near the table with some books in front of him.

Sighing in a bit of relief, Harry grabs the three closest books and sits at a desk where he can watch Malfoy’s face and Malfoy can – he supposes – watch him. Settling in, Harry opens _Disturbances in the Magic: What to do when your ley lines tangle._

Three hours later Harry’s back hurts, his mouth is dry, his belly is growling, and he doesn’t think he’s learned a single useful thing. Between the two of them, it feels like they have barely started on the books Harry gathered, and Malfoy can’t stop casting aspersions on Harry’s ability to choose books likely to be of use.

“Why in Merlin’s name would you choose so many books on cursed and poisoned foodstuffs, and yet nothing on antidotes?” Malfoy says as the clock on the wall reaches for six pm.

“They were a good cross section of information about every kind of magical damage I could think of,” Harry snaps back, feeling self righteous. “What use is information about solutions when you have no idea what the problem is, yet?”

Harry suddenly realizes he never said anything about the faerie’s spider web demonstration, but if he starts talking about that now, Malfoy will stick around to listen, and he wants Malfoy out of the room – the annoying git. He’s tired of the bitching, and he needs a break.

“If you don’t like what I picked why don’t you go looking for better ones, then?”

Looking down his nose, Malfoy sneers at this, but he stalks out of the classroom, head held high and stride stiff. His hair is still shiny and falls neatly to his shoulder, even though Harry’s seen him shove his hands in it repeatedly since they started reading. His legs are ridiculously long and Harry figures that means he’ll be back from the library in no time.

Sighing, stretching, one hand on his empty stomach, Harry walks to the window, and startles when he looks out. Where there had been a few dozen wolves outside the inner gates, he now sees more than he can possibly count. In addition, even in the faltering visibility caused by the increasingly heavy pink and orange fog, he can see that the trees and towers are full of sleeping birds. He notes mostly ravens and owls. Harry lifts his eyes to the edge of the Forbidden Forest – much easier to see from this window than from the library – and he could swear he sees a few centaurs milling about aimlessly through the pastel fog. 

The Giant Squid, as well, seems to be roiling the Black Lake. Harry watches as the Squid slaps the surface of the water with three enormous arms. As the waves crash against the rocks, Harry sees that there are many dozens of loons flapping in the agitated shallows. The far edges of the lake, however, are completely obscured with that pink and orange fog.

“Everyone, _everyone_ ,” he whispers. “They’ve all gone completely bonkers.”

No one says anything. Malfoy is surely still in the library, and the rest of the castle is too busy proving Harry right. Harry remembers the blue and orange faerie with the weird wing, and the bizarre message she had worked so hard to give him. She wasn’t mad so much as suffering. But maybe a little mad, too, because didn’t normal faeries speak English when they felt like talking to wizards?

Faeries don’t usually want to talk to wizards, of course. Kind of like Malfoys who don’t want to talk to Potters. Harry scowls at this, because there have been a few times this year when he might have wanted to talk to Malfoy with a civil tongue in his head (hell, there had been a few times _this afternoon_ when Harry might have wanted to talk to Malfoy with a civil tongue in his head), but Malfoy would only sneer or scowl or insult Harry, instead. What a fucking _prat_ Malfoy is. So snooty, so withdrawn. Thinks he’s better than everyone, taller than everyone. He only ever makes nice with Slytherins, too. So blonde. Why won’t he ever be nice to Harry? “I gave him his wand back,” Harry mutters under his breath. “What more does he want? Doesn’t even say ‘thank you’ when a bloke gives him back his wand. Who does he think he is, anyway? The hottest, most fanciable bloke in school? Probably thinks we all want to get down on our knees and suck his pretty blonde cock.” Harry sighs loudly, but no one says anything. He’s still quite alone.

Whoever Malfoy thinks he is, he’s still in the library, and Harry is ravenous and still has stacks of books to read. Crazy castle or no, Winky is not only still a house-elf, but the only Hogwarts house-elf that Harry knows by name. So Harry decides to take a risk and calls out, “Winky?”

Winky pops into the room, twirling and laughing. “Cake!” She declares. She doesn’t seem remotely surprised to see Harry in the Arithmancy classroom on a Monday evening. “Does Master Harry wish a cake?” She giggles. Harry really, really doesn’t want that scary cake, but he can’t help but be pleased to see Winky happy and (physically, at least) healthy.

“No cake,” he tells her firmly, but he smiles so she won’t be sad. “Sandwiches. Stew, maybe. Pumpkin juice and water. Nothing… unusual, okay?”

“Is Master Harry certain?” Winky looks extremely confused, and Harry feels a knot of worry sink deeper into his guts.

“Certain,” he tells Winky. “Absolutely certain. No pudding at all. Just supper. All right?”

Winky cocks her head at Harry, so he smiles as encouragingly as he knows how, and – seemingly satisfied that he means it – she gives a tiny curtsy and vanishes. Harry waits at the window for a few minutes, watching the wolves. Harry is quite sure that – normally – wolves live in smallish groups. He is also pretty sure that they are normally an extremely territorial kind of creature. These wolves, however, are not behaving as he would expect. Not at all. Some of them are romping through patches of fog. Some of them are sleeping in what he thinks of as “puppy piles,” even though they seem to be fully grown. A lot of them are just meandering around, sniffing at one another, licking one another, and generally being remarkably calm for a few – hundred? – wolves all relaxing on the Hogwarts grounds. Nonetheless, Harry has zero interest in attempting to walk through them, or even fly over them – especially when he considers the thousands of birds, and the increasingly dense (and close) orange and pink fog.

As Harry is wondering what messed up magic could draw all these ravens, wolves and owls to Hogwarts, he hears a small pop and turns. Winky has arrived with a steaming silver tureen, and it smells like beef stew. There is a round loaf of crusty bread, a stack of bowls and some cutlery, and two tall jugs of liquid: one with pumpkin juice and, he thinks, the other full of ice water. Harry moves closer and sees a platter stacked high with sandwiches: turkey, egg salad; he thinks he sees tuna too.

“Winky!” he grins his delight. “This is perfect!”

Winky twirls and laughs. “Master Harry has oddest tastes in foods,” she says, looking scandalized at her own cheek, “but he can be asking for anything he be liking and house-elves will brings it.”

“You’re the only elf whose name I know,” Harry admits, stepping over and picking up a tuna sandwich.

“You not be needing names,” Winky says, bouncing on one foot. “Just call ‘elf’! Elf will come.”

She curtseys and pops out as Harry nods his understanding. He feels obligated to try the stew, bread and both drinks before Malfoy comes back. He doesn’t really think the food is behind this mystery – how could that affect the animals and centaurs, after all? But he still feels that he should be the taste-tester, just in case he’s wrong.

Silly, really, that Malfoy stomped off to the library. Harry’s _taken_ out all three books on faerie writing and communication. He’s even skimmed through them earlier. Malfoy is such a prat for thinking he can find more. He’d been listening when Harry had told him about what the faerie had done, Harry can remember him listening. And he’d agreed that Harry should be the one to look through those books on faeries, since Harry had been the one who saw the picture. Harry remembers that, too. Harry just can’t imagine what Malfoy thinks he is going to find in the library. He’s such a snooty prat.

Harry has only eaten one bowl of stew and two and a half sandwiches when Malfoy returns just after seven. Malfoy looks shocked when he sees the food. “Dig in,” Harry mumbles through a mouthful of roasted turkey, lettuce, tomato and mustard, then he swallows. “Whatever’s causing this, it isn’t the food. We’ve both been eating at Hogwarts and those wolves and birds haven’t.” Malfoy nods slightly and sets a large stack of books down on another table with his wand. Then he ladles some stew into a bowl and sits down to eat it with a large hunk of the bread.

“You should tell me more about that faerie,” Malfoy says after a few mouthfuls of stew. He pats his mouth with a cloth napkin. Harry hadn’t even realized Winky had brought them.

Harry stretches some stiffness out of his back and shoulders. Malfoy watches him, grey eyes narrowed, arms crossed protectively around the stew.

“I think I told you everything before?” Harry says, yawning.

“Humour me,” Malfoy says with irritation. Harry rolls his eyes but he knows Malfoy is the only ally he has in here, so he should try to get along with the bloke.

“I saw a flash up high, so I sent a stunner, and a faerie fell. I caught her, put her on a pillow, woke her up, and couldn’t understand a word she said.” Malfoy nods – hair swinging with the movement – and Harry can’t understand why they’re doing this again.

“So then she realizes I can’t understand, and she draws a weird picture of these white cracks and stuff. The end.” Harry stuffs the sandwich back into his mouth and then looks up when he hears a chair scrape loudly across the floor.

“What! She drew you a picture? You didn’t tell me that before!”

“Yes I did,” Harry says, indignant. He stands as well but Malfoy is a great deal taller than he is. “Of course I did. When we talked about why I picked out these titles.”

“We didn’t talk about that,” Malfoy says, and now he looks worried. “I criticized them, but you’ve never explained why you picked them, or mentioned the picture the faerie drew.”

Harry pauses. He was so confident a minute ago that he’d told Malfoy all of this, but now he isn’t. The memory he thought he had feels like a dream when he tries to grab hold of it. The remaining wisps shred in his mind and he’s left with nothing but uncertainty. He sits down again and shakes his head.

“I suppose,” Malfoy says slowly, “this might mean you aren’t immune to whatever is happening. Maybe we’re both at risk.”

“Maybe, but I was fine before. I think we should figure out what changed,” Harry says. His head feels clear again. He can’t understand why he ever thought he had told Malfoy about the faerie’s picture, because now he’s sure he didn’t. And he should explain it. But first he wants to get to the bottom of this.

“Well, we were apart,” Malfoy says slowly, ticking this off with one finger.

“And I spoke with a house-elf,” Harry says, and Malfoy puts down a second finger.

“You started eating first,” Malfoy says, and he swallows visibly and looks at his food. Then he puts down a third finger.

“You went to the library without me…” Harry says, thinking this is probably why. “I think it’s because I was alone,” he adds. “Because it was really daft of me not to tell you all about that right away, when I first got here, but I didn’t. And what both of those mistakes have in common is me being alone right before.”

“So we have to stick together.” Malfoy sneers.

“You don’t have to look so fucking happy about it,” Harry says, deeply insulted. He is stuck with Malfoy now. Until this crazy mess is solved. Who knows how long that will take?

“Tell me about the picture of the white cracks,” Malfoy says.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

As Harry explains (as clearly as he can) what the faerie showed him, Malfoy sneers a lot. Then they both settle in to keep reading. Harry notices that despite all his anger about not getting the information right away, Malfoy doesn’t have anything new or useful to add once he’s heard the whole story.

At least, Harry is pretty sure it’s the whole story. After forgetting it twice like that, Harry isn’t so sure. Why is memory subjective? It ought to be just… factual. Like maths. Either something happens, or it doesn’t. Full stop. “I miss maths,” Harry sighs quietly and stretches out his feet. He’s getting pins and needles.

“What?” Malfoy says, probably looking for any reason to stop reading book after book after book.

“Oh,” Harry says, “I was just missing having something concrete to solve.”

“Since when do you solve concrete?” Malfoy asks, and he looks genuinely confused. (It’s a surprisingly good look on him, Harry realizes with a shock.) “I thought only Muggles used that stuff? Are you trying to build your way out of this?” Now he looks more his usual snarky self, and Harry sneers once before intentionally making his face blank to be more polite. Even if Malfoy isn’t capable of it, Harry is. He thinks fleetingly of Dumbledore’s unflappable manners and tries not to frown.

Harry stands and stretches. His spine feels like concrete, frankly. “Since you asked, no. I meant concrete as a description, not literally. I was just learning maths from a Muggle recently, and I was enjoying how solid it all feels. Nothing about it is subjective. Here at Hogwarts it often feels like everything we learn is subjective. Like,” Harry pauses, looking for an example. Conversation is a great excuse to avoid that boring book he’d just opened. It’s on repairing damaged wands, and it was written three hundred fifty years ago. 

“Like, why are most spells based in Latin, but not all? For example, ‘ _Pack_!’ or “ _Point me_!” He steps away from the desk and starts pacing.

“Hm,” Malfoy says, sitting up high and tucking his feet under his desk. “I think I see what you mean. Like the way Divination hardly ever works, except then sometimes it does.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “And there’s essentially no predicting when it will, either. What’s up with that?” He faces Malfoy and puts both his hands down on a desk.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy says, sounding sullen. He crosses his arms and leans back in his desk. “But it isn’t going to help us solve this problem.”

“But what will?” Harry wonders aloud, suddenly feeling despondent. He’s never done anything like this without Ron and Hermione before. He paces toward the closed classroom door. “These books are getting us nowhere. Telling you about the faerie got us nowhere. Hell, trying to talk to the faerie got me nowhere. We have no idea what the fuck the problem is, let alone how to fix it.”

“No,” Malfoy says. He sounds miserable. “We really don’t. Are you sure all the professors are incapacitated?”

Harry frowns. He turns away from the door and paces back toward Malfoy. That’s a good question. “No,” he admits. “I haven’t seen every single professor. I only know that all the professors I have actually seen look utterly mad. But I don’t know that I have seen all of them. Still, we aren’t going to go breaking into their quarters. Not even to check on them.” He swallows and turns toward Malfoy. “Are we?”

“Well,” Malfoy says, and he sits on his desk and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Probably not. I can’t quite imagine violating a professor’s privacy like that.” He sighs.

“Maybe we think about this from another angle,” Malfoy says. He stands up and walks to the window, putting one hand up on the glass. “What do students, professors, house-elves, owls and wolves have in common?” He speaks toward the window, looking outside. (Now he looks thoughtful, and damn Harry if that isn’t an adorable look on Malfoy as well. He banishes the thought in order to respond properly.)

“And faeries. They’re all up in this. Mammals?” Harry thinks out loud. “No, owls are birds. Magical?”

“Are wolves magical?” Malfoy asks.

“Good question,” Harry admits. “I don’t know, but…” He turns to the table still laden with books. “I think this can answer that,” he says, plucking something from the bottom of a stack without toppling anything. “Go magic,” he mutters quietly, and he opens _Magical Creatures and the Magics that Damage and Heal Them._

Malfoy stays helpfully quiet as Harry flips slowly through the pages, seeking an answer. “Wolves are highly susceptible to magical disturbances,” Harry finally reads aloud. “They are generally the very first creatures to react when geographical magic becomes damaged.”

Harry looks up, surprised. “What’s geographical magic?”

Malfoy stays silent so Harry looks back at the book, and realizes the problem is bigger than he’d appreciated. He reads out loud again. “Wolves also tend to react when house-elf magic, Blood magic, weather magic and/or faerie magics are injured or otherwise damaged. Please also see the chapters on owls, loons and ravens.”

Harry snaps the book shut in irritation. "I have never heard of any of those kinds of magic. Not as separate magics, anyway. I thought magic was, you know, magic."

“This is why Father wanted me to go to Durmstrang,” Malfoy says, pushing one hand through his smooth hair, and Harry tries to ignore his crappy attitude.

“So you’ve heard of all of these kinds of magic, then?” Harry tries to interject at least a small note of hope into his voice.

Malfoy stands up straight and tall, sneering. He seems ready to let loose a volley of vitriol, but then he stops himself and sighs. “I’ve heard of a few of them,” he admits to the floor, looking down now. How is his hair still perfect? Harry cannot fathom it. He pushes his own hands into the rat’s nest on his head and thinks.

“I know we didn’t learn anything about this while I was here,” Harry manages, trying to be diplomatic.

“Well,” Malfoy says, looking a little defensive, “we’re wizards. We needed to learn about _our_ magic first?” By the time he’s done with the sentence, he’s asked a question.

“Yes,” Harry says, wanting to defend Dumbledore at least as much as he wants to make momentary peace with Malfoy. “But, reasonable or not, now we have a problem that Hogwarts didn’t prepare us to solve.”

“Welcome to our entire lives, Potter!” Malfoy yelps. He sounds truly pained, but Harry can’t help it. He laughs.

Malfoy looks furious, and this makes Harry laugh harder, even as he attempts to stop. “That is damn funny,” Harry manages, and Malfoy sneers at him half-heartedly. Then he smiles a little. “It is, isn’t it?” he agrees, giggling, and Harry doubles over with laughter in response.

As ridiculous as this all is, Malfoy is right. Hogwarts may well have a reputation as one of the very best Wizarding schools, but really, is that saying much? How many of them even are there to compare? And what the hell (other than Hermione and Ron) did Hogwarts really give him that would win the war or make him a better wizard? Just a handful of spells and dead father figures. Which is somehow funny right now.

Despite the dour downturn of his thoughts, Harry laughs and laughs, rolling on the floor now, unable to stop. It’s all just so pathetic, ridiculous. And it’s such a relief to let go of the stress and just laugh. And the war sucked, sure, but he won anyway, and Voldemort lost. So there.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy wheezes out through snorts. “The birds seem to think this school has a lot to offer!”

Laughing harder now, Harry bumps into Malfoy, and that’s when he sees that Malfoy is kneeling on the floor too, laughing too hard to stay upright. Harry manages to pat the other boy on the shoulder, despite the way they are both convulsing with laughter now.

He wants to say something funny but his mind feels blank. “We did it though,” he finally says. “Every time before, we did manage. So I think we can manage again?”

Malfoy falls backwards to rest on his side, pulling away from Harry but looking him in the face. He looks far less amused all of a sudden. “That ‘we,’ though, is you and your two best friends. I have nothing to do with it.”

That he was usually involved on the wrong end goes unsaid, but Harry is thinking it. He decides he can be polite enough not to say it out loud.

“Where are they, anyway?” Malfoy rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling. He clutches at his stomach with both hands, and Harry sympathizes. His stomach muscles hurt, too. He rolls onto his own back and sighs. “Last I checked, they were alone in Ron’s private ‘Head Boy’ bedroom.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says, sounding uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “I checked my Map, and actually, as far as I can tell, not only are we the only people who aren’t nutters right now, we’re the only people our age who aren’t snogging in a corner. Or, er, worse.” Harry glances nervously at Malfoy, who looks uncomfortable too.

“Wait….” Malfoy says, shaking his head. “What do you mean by ‘your Map’?”

“Oh,” Harry says, and now he’s the one who feels uncomfortable. “I guess I need to show you the Marauder’s Map.”

Harry takes out the Map and solemnly swears he is up to no good. Malfoy’s eyebrow goes up. Then Harry spreads the Map out and tries to explain the history and a little of what he’s used it for. But in Malfoy’s face he sees fascination and wonder, but little comprehension.

“You didn’t hear a word of that, did you, Malfoy?”

“What?” Malfoy says, running a reverent hand delicately over the parchment.

“Never mind,” Harry says, feeling intensely sad, all of a sudden. He has no interest in exploring why that might be. “Let’s just see if we can see any professors alone, all right?”

“All right….” Malfoy says, hushed, and the two of them divvy the map into halves almost automatically, without discussion. Harry on the left, Malfoy on the right, they both run their hands over the map somewhat methodically, looking for a name that might be of some assistance. When they both reach the middle, Harry looks up into Malfoy’s disappointed face, and he sits on the floor and sighs.

“I was afraid of that,” Harry says. “Every single professor in the building is out in a common area, surrounded by masses of students. So presumably, they are all off their rockers right now.” Harry taps the Map and mumbles “mischief managed,” then folds it up and puts it back into his pocket.

“That,” Malfoy says quietly, “is an amazing tool.”

Pretending he didn’t tell Malfoy earlier, because (after all) he knows Malfoy didn’t hear a word of it, Harry says proudly, “My Dad made that, with his friends.”

“Brilliant,” Malfoy says. “But it does look like we’re on our own in this.” He yawns.

Harry yawns back. “I’m exhausted. Maybe we should try to sleep.”

“Er,” Malfoy says, looking at the floor. “Together somehow, I think?”

“Oh,” Harry says, feeling his guts clench up weirdly. William’s face swims into his mind and he forces it away. “Okay.”

“I’m the only eighth year Slytherin,” Malfoy says, standing up and facing away from Harry to pack up his satchel. “Well, other than Millicent. So I have a room to myself, but it only has one bed.”

“I’m not a student this year,” Harry says, and he stands up as well. “So I don’t have a bed at all. I suppose, since we can’t be apart, we should see if we can move a second bed into your room, or try to duplicate your bed, or something.”

“All right,” Malfoy says. “Let’s just leave all the books here.”

The two of them head down toward the dungeons without speaking to one another. The hallways are a bit quieter, but there are still sounds that suggest the castle is hosting a few different parties.

Slytherin’s password is, of all things, “shepherd’s pie.” Malfoy looks a little embarrassed. “Slughorn,” he explains. “It’s always a food now.”

Harry shrugs. Malfoy’s head of house is hardly Malfoy’s responsibility. “Where’s your room?” he asks. “And, er, the showers?”

They walk through a group of young Slytherins taking up much of the common room. The children ignore them completely, instead clapping for one another as they juggle oranges, do handstands and perform card tricks.

Malfoy loans Harry a dressing gown and pyjamas, and only laughs a little when Harry shortens them to fit better. They manage separate showers on opposite sides of the bathroom. Then, clean and tired and still slightly damp, they walk down the hall and back to Malfoy’s small, tidy room. It has one window, and the lower half of it is underwater. It only has one bed, but it’s a great deal bigger than the beds in the Gryffindor dorms.

“S’big,” Harry mumbles.

“I’ve never had such a big bed before,” Malfoy admits. “Not at Hogwarts, I mean. But I’m too tall for a regular bed now, and when I got here in September, the house-elves brought me this.”

“Well, if we can’t get a second one in here, I suppose we’ll both fit?” Harry says, feeling drunken butterflies swoop and swirl in his guts. He _really_ doesn’t want to sleep next to Malfoy. He _really_ kind of does want to sleep next to Malfoy, who is beautiful even if he is an arse. It feels like whatever happens, it will be both a disaster and a relief, and Harry drops his borrowed toiletries on the desk and rushes out into the hallway. “Show me where to find an empty bed,” he calls back into Malfoy’s room, “and I’ll try to shrink it down and then levitate it in here.”

“Er,” Malfoy says quietly, right behind Harry. Harry startles a bit. “I don’t think you can work those spells on Hogwarts beds. Too much potential for bullying.”

Harry wants to try anyway, but… was that a little catch he’d heard in Malfoy’s voice? He almost turns around to look at Malfoy’s face. Because… he’s pretty sure Malfoy is speaking from personal experience. And it would probably be… as a bully. He thinks Malfoy tried to do those things to someone else’s bed. But that would have been years ago, wouldn’t it?

Harry thinks, "but you're not a bully anymore." He wants to say it out loud.

Instead, Harry looks straight ahead, away from Malfoy, and says, “Well, er, I can try?”

But Malfoy is right. Harry has no trouble finding an empty bed in an empty room. It’s not that late at night yet – plus most of the maddened students seem to prefer to fall asleep where they are twirling or joking or eating cake. But the dormitory bed is impervious to every spell Harry can think of (except the ones that neaten up the sheets), and he and Malfoy decide moving to a different room is ill-advised. Malfoy, as it turns out, can lock his bedroom door (even though the way he admits this makes it seem like doing so breaks a school rule) and they would feel awfully vulnerable fast asleep in other people’s beds.

Harry tries asking Winky after none of his spells work but she just giggles and twirls and tips her head ear to shoulder, declaring it against school rules and trying to bring Harry and Draco chocolate cake, treacle tart or fruit pie.

It’s creepy – the way Winky never stops offering pudding. By now Harry is pretty sure that the sweets aren’t actually any more dangerous than the stew or the sandwiches, but he can’t bring himself to eat them, anyway. It helps that he’s largely got out of the habit, since the Auror Academy is so determined to turn him into some sort of lean, mean soldier machine. The dueling, exercise and other physical classes are the best ones, too; perhaps because Harry likes feeling stronger and more muscular than ever before. He’ll never be tall, but he can make himself strong. So he doesn’t even ask Malfoy, just firmly turns down pudding again and walks back to Malfoy’s room behind him, watching Malfoy’s slippered feet pad down the stone hallway.

Back to back with Malfoy, it takes Harry an interminable, uneasy age to fall asleep.

The next morning he wakes up hard as a rock, cuddled up against Malfoy’s firm back, his left arm around Malfoy’s long, lean torso. Face flaming down to his knees, he stumbles off to the shower and tosses one off as fast as he can. It takes almost no time at all.

Malfoy comes in to brush his teeth and hair quite a while after Harry’s done wanking, thank Merlin, and once they are both dressed Winky kindly brings them sausages, yeast rolls, and eggs. They eat at Malfoy’s small desk, Malfoy in the chair and Harry perched on the end of the bed. They barely speak to one another, and Harry is grateful for the chance to forget how he woke up.

Then together but silent, the two boys head upstairs again, and settle into the Arithmancy classroom to get to work on checking the rest of the books for anything that might help.

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Tuesday passes slowly. They read. They gain nothing they can use. Their increasingly useless reading exercise is so boring and disheartening that Harry almost misses the Auror Academy. (Almost.) Harry feels like his brain is swimming in sludge, and he worries that the castle’s madness is affecting him even though he and Malfoy never part for the whole day.

Both of them are getting slower and slower in their reading, as well. But they aren’t talking about it.

The only time Harry feels sharp and alert is the moment when he snaps into awareness. Awareness, that is, of his erection and Malfoy’s proximity to it. It happens again Wednesday morning, and he’s better at pulling away from Malfoy’s warm body as though he is still asleep. Then he flees the bed and wanks in the shower. It’s his morning ritual now, and it makes him miserable (and hard) just thinking about it.

As they walk together from Slytherin to the Arithmancy room, they look around. The castle is taking a bit of damage, though not as much as one might expect. Harry notes a chandelier on the floor and suggests that someone probably tried to swing on it.

Malfoy points out some scorch marks on a wall, and wonders out loud if someone lit fireworks indoors.

On the next floor up, Harry points out a tall stack of crystal balls at the end of a short hallway, and Malfoy says it’s a good thing Trelawney is too busy clapping at handstands and juggling acts in the History of Magic classroom to notice.

By now they have personally seen every adult that lives at Hogwarts at least once – even Hagrid and Filch – and they are all just as addled as the last. They’d seen Filch join in with the library sing along, and Hagrid had been downing sweets in the Great Hall like a world class eating champion.

Occasionally a ghost floats by, but they appear to be frozen, which is – frankly – one of the most disturbing aspects yet of this whole mess.

At eleven on the third morning of this horrible, never-ending study – poring over books that get them nowhere – Malfoy (as per usual, now) calls for a house-elf, and one brings them soup, sandwiches, and pumpkin juice. While they are eating, Malfoy asks to borrow the Marauder’s Map.

“Why?” Harry asks, feeling suspicious. He can’t think of a reason that letting Malfoy read it would be dangerous, but he isn’t used to just handing over his Map to anyone other than Ron or Hermione.

“Just a hunch,” Malfoy says, and he shrugs one shoulder. Harry doesn’t understand how someone can do that elegantly, but Malfoy can, and it annoys him.

“A hunch _that_?” Harry prompts, because why should Malfoy have it easy?

Malfoy gives a rather lush sigh. “That if I read your Map I might see things that will help me come up with helpful ideas. That I will see things that will trigger useful thoughts. Is that good enough, Mr Potter? I promise not to get any food on it, or take it out of your sight.”

Feeling resentful and a little manipulated, Harry nonetheless pulls the Map from his pocket and allows Malfoy to open it and scan it for the rest of their lunch.

“See anything of use?” he finally asks, but Malfoy just grunts at him and shoves the Map back towards Harry.

While Harry is putting the Map back into his pocket, Malfoy says quietly, “We aren’t making progress.”

“Mm,” Harry says, feeling stupid and guilty. Malfoy is right, but Harry doesn’t have a solution and he doubts Malfoy does, either.

“I thought, though,” Malfoy pauses as though he is about to say something unpleasant, “that talking to a faerie was a wise move. Perhaps we should try that again.” Harry makes a face and Malfoy rushes in to speak before Harry can say no.

“I know it didn’t get you very far last time, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a good idea to try again. We will both be there this time; we can prepare. Have some idea what to expect. And we can talk to a few faeries if necessary. If the first one doesn’t have an answer, I expect we will still learn _something_. Maybe if we keep trying….”

Harry pauses, because he was wrong. It isn’t a solution but it’s a lot better than just reading the last of the books with no goal in sight. He nods and stands. Together, they walk toward the classroom door and open it. They walk into the hallway and Malfoy points to an alcove between theirs and the next classroom. By silent agreement, they walk toward it and then stand back to back, waiting to stun a faerie.

Harry succeeds first, and Malfoy sneers a bit but puts one of the pillows down flat on the bench as Harry walks over, a tiny faerie cradled in his hands. Harry lays the bedraggled pink- and white-winged faerie down, but before Harry can cast a gentle _Rennervate_ Malfoy lays a hand on Harry’s wand hand.

Harry swallows and stares at the hand on his own.

“So,” Malfoy says, quietly, “last time she spoke out loud, correct? You heard words, they just weren’t English?”

“Yes,” Harry says.

“Very well,” Malfoy says. He stands up very tall and taps his wand against his other hand. “Then I’ll try language translation spells. I only know three, though.”

Harry nods and looks down at the faerie. This one looks almost as banged up and mutated as the last one he tried to talk to, and he feels a sweep of pity for her. Then he sits in front of the pillow and casts a very quiet _Rennervate_.

Looking almost drunk, the faerie opens her eyes, and when she sees two Hogwarts boys staring down at her, she gives them a weary half-smile. She struggles up onto her elbows.

““අද හෙට ආදරණීය පයි?” She says. Malfoy waves his wand and casts a spell Harry isn’t familiar with, and the faerie watches him, resigned.

“Why did you පුඩිං?” She asks them, and looks bemused when they whoop and grin. “I can’t ටොන් hear,” she says. “Are you තාරාවන් talking?”

[](http://postimage.org/)

“She can’t hear us, can she?” Harry says, and Malfoy tries another translation spell.

“Can you hear me?” Harry says when Malfoy is done, but the faerie just shrugs at him.

Malfoy tries a third spell but it doesn’t work, either.

“You කැළලි still completely silent,” the faerie says. “But I පුහුණුව හරිත can hear කැම්පර?”

Harry writes words in the air with his wand. They come out shiny Gryffindor gold and hang in space like jewelry on a hook.

“We can hear you,” he writes. “Do you know what is wrong here?”

The faerie claps her little hands together.

“Yes!” she cries, looking exhausted but extremely happy now. She points at Harry’s wand hand. “It ගසක you! You broke all කුෂන magic when you ended the evil! You have to fix මිහිරි all. No පැණි is fixing anything! All the different kinds of magic, they are all broken චිත්රපටය getting worse all the time because no one is fixing anything!”

Malfoy interrupts her. “All the magic broke?” His words are silvery, sharp lines standing in the air looking much like Aunt Petunia’s best handwriting.

“All the magic කසෝපු know of,” the faerie says, drooping. “Faeries කැස්බෑ wolves and owls and දිගු, we’re all drawn here, සෝස the source, to ප්ලාස්ටික of it all. But I fear රසකපුරු making it all worse. පරීක දම් ෂණය.”

“How do we fix it?” Harry writes in the air, and the faerie looks a bit miserable. She shakes her head, looking like she is too sad to admit that she hasn’t got an answer.

“Any clues at all?” Harry writes, and the faerie frowns and struggles into a sitting position on her pillow.

“I දම් පාට මේ ආකාරයෙන,” she says, and frowns when she sees their frowns. Malfoys casts his best translation spell once again.

“රසය පරීක ෂණය දී arithරස පරීක ෂකයා ත,” she tries. “Hogwarts සවන් ගසක් healing පුහුණුව සෝස්?”

“Thank you so much for your help,” Malfoy slices into the air in neat silver lines. “My translation spells are failing, so we can’t understand you any more.”

“කපු,” the faerie says, and her eyes droop a little. Malfoy takes a handkerchief from his pocket and transfigures it into a small, fluffy blanket. It is exactly the same bold pink, Harry realizes as Malfoy drapes it over the faerie, as the edges of the faerie’s wings. Her eyes close, and Harry and Malfoy creep away.

“That was a _great_ idea, Malfoy,” Harry says, knowing he should give credit where credit is due. “We know a lot more than we did just a few minutes ago.”

“I suppose,” Malfoy says, looking down the hallway, very distracted. “But I think we should talk to more faeries. And first we should learn a better translation spell. Come to the library with me.”

It isn’t worded as a request. Harry shrugs and starts walking toward the library. They don’t speak as they travel the empty halls. Harry hates the emptiness. It’s awful without so much as a portrait. He can hear people laughing, but it doesn’t feel welcoming or positive, because he knows those people aren’t in their right minds. 

There is no one really here but Harry and Malfoy, and it is starting to get to him.

Even though he saw the very same pair snogging aggressively in front of the library on Saturday, Harry is desperately embarrassed to run into them when he’s walking into the library with Malfoy. Two days later they are far more obvious about what they are doing – especially since they are now wearing Muggle clothes instead of voluminous Hogwarts robes. Even though Harry does not want to look at them, he can see that the girl has her hand all the way down into the boy’s jeans, which are (Harry is pretty sure) completely unzipped. He thinks he recognizes the girl as a sixth year Gryffindor (not that he knows her name), and he _supposes_ this could qualify as bravery.

The boy on the floor moans: a sexy, eager sound.

Face flaming, Harry rushes past the pair into the library. Harry has no idea what Malfoy thinks of the situation, because Harry says nothing to him and refuses to look anywhere near Malfoy’s face.

Harry heads for the nearest flat surface and puts his hands down. He is leaning on Madam Pince’s main front checkout desk. He’s half hard just from walking past those two, and he needs a moment to collect himself and reorient toward the task at hand.

Pince isn’t sitting there, though. As a matter of fact, Harry realizes, the sing-a-long crowd doesn’t seem to be in the library at all. He closes his eyes and listens, and while he thinks he can hear something, and it might be singing, it isn’t in the main part of the library and probably isn’t in the library at all. He raises his head and looks around and sees Malfoy, standing a bit away, looking slightly unfocused. Harry can’t help but notice – especially after running across the rutting couple on the floor – how strikingly pretty Malfoy’s face is.

“Are you headed for translation spellbooks?” Harry asks firmly, and Malfoy cocks his head to one side, then smiles.

“Er, yes?” he answers. “You should follow me?” It shouldn’t be a question, but it is, and Harry feels a ball of nervous energy form and squirm inside his belly. If Malfoy goes nutty, Harry is in trouble. He isn’t confident about solving this problem at all, let alone all by himself. Even if his only ally right now is Malfoy, it is a relief to have someone to share this with.

He follows Malfoy into the stacks, toward the back wall, where most of the windows are. He still hasn’t seen anyone else in the library.

“Where do you think everyone went?” he asks out loud, but Malfoy just turns and smiles vaguely over his right shoulder.

“That isn’t an answer,” Harry mutters, annoyed, but he doesn’t confront Malfoy for real, just follows him.

“Just sit over there,” Malfoy finally answers when they get to the right section. “This is going to take me a few minutes.”

He sounds irritable and focused again, and, sighing quietly, Harry allows himself to feel some relief. Looks like Malfoy is fine again, and Harry doesn’t have to worry about his one compatriot vanishing into madness like everyone else in the school.

“I’ll just sit here and wait, then,” Harry says out loud. Louder than Pince would appreciate, were she here (and herself). Harry pulls a chair away from a large round table, turning it so he can face Malfoy. Then he puts his head in his hands and rubs his temples. It is so unnerving, the way he and Malfoy are surrounded by most of the people they know, and yet, undeniably, so very alone. He really doesn’t like it. But he should honestly be used to this sort of shit by now, shouldn’t he?

He looks up and Malfoy is standing in front of his chair.

“Did you find something useful?” Harry asks, and Malfoy drops a large book on the table. But when Harry turns to look at the title, Malfoy drops lightly into Harry’s lap.

“What?” Harry squeaks out, feeling horrified and randy. Malfoy is on his lap! They’re both clothed, but still!

“Have you given in to the craziness?” Harry asks in a panicked voice, and Malfoy looks into his eyes.

Malfoy’s eyes look mostly unfocused, and his smile is unlike anything Harry has ever seen on his face. He looks unconcerned, relaxed, unburdened by the present or the past. Completely mad, in other words.

Which makes sense. Harry knows damn well Malfoy wouldn’t sit in Harry’s lap if he weren’t addled.

“Who are you, again?” Malfoy asks in a sweet voice, and then he leans in and captures Harry’s lower lip between his teeth. It’s gentle and the tiniest bit wet and Harry’s cock is rock hard in an instant. Malfoy lets go of Harry’s lip, turning the nibble into a kiss. Harry responds, lost in a moment he never anticipated, reaching for Malfoy’s forearms and kissing back, opening his mouth to Malfoy’s and wondering at the feeling of another boy’s mouth on his own.

He feels drugged, and worries for a fleeting second that they have both lost themselves in Hogwarts’ mass delusion. But then Malfoy rearranges himself in Harry’s lap and rubs his thigh hard against Harry’s erection as he moves. Harry releases a long low moan. He’s embarrassed at the noise, but it is involuntary and he could not have avoided making it – even had he known it was possible. 

“What are we doing?” Malfoy suddenly asks, and he stands up, leaving Harry light-headed and unable to answer. Harry stands too, for lack of a more useful response, and when Malfoy looks at him this time, there is a question in his eyes, and more awareness than Harry would expect. Then Harry watches those eyes go unfocused again, watches as Malfoy’s face breaks out into a huge grin.

“I know who you are!” Malfoy says, with an innocent sounding delight. “You’re the bloke I wake up with in the morning! You may be really short, but when you rub your cock against my arse, it feels enormous.” He gives Harry a flirtatious dip of his lashes.

Harry loses the ability to keep his mouth closed, staring in horror. Malfoy had been aware of that? Harry had tried so desperately to hide it! Suddenly, Harry wishes they’d both been _intending_ to have those sleepy morning moments. Enormous?

Malfoy puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders, leans over and kisses Harry without nibbling this time. Harry opens his mouth without even deciding to, it simply happens like magic. This thought makes Harry laugh and Malfoy puts his arms around Harry and starts sinking down to the library floor.

“I want to feel your cock again,” Malfoy says sweetly, and he lies on his back, pulling Harry down with him. His eyes are closed, and his mouth is pursed, like he wants a kiss. His own erection is clearly tenting his school trousers and Harry’s half on top of him and he is really sure this is a terrible idea until Malfoy reaches down and grabs Harry’s arse to haul Harry’s hips fully on top of Malfoy’s cock.

When Malfoy bucks his hips upwards Harry moans into Malfoy’s shoulder.

Harry squirms because how else is he going to get off Malfoy? And this rubs their cocks together and Malfoy is holding hard onto Harry’s arse with both of his great big hands and the next thing Harry knows he is full on frotting with and sucking on Draco effing Malfoy on the floor of the abandoned Hogwarts library and then he feels Malfoy come underneath him, moaning and whimpering and absolutely sparking apart like a big fat firecracker and Harry rubs himself even harder against Malfoy, he’s not sucking his neck anymore, concentrating too hard on rubbing his cock against Malfoy’s still hard cock, and Malfoy whimpers “yes yes oh please come on me get me all wet,” and Harry comes and collapses onto Draco Malfoy and breathes really hard, like when he is almost finished lifting weights.

“Mm, lovely.” Malfoy says, and he sounds relaxed, happy and focused. “Still feel enormous.” He sounds extremely focused and clear and logical, really. His hands cup and stroke Harry’s arse a little. It feels excellent. And awkward.

Squinting in suspicion and embarrassment, Harry budges up just a little in an attempt to look Malfoy in the face, but his eyes are closed and his face is turned. There is a bright red spot on Malfoy’s neck and Harry’s face blooms with heat when he remembers putting it there.

“What just happened?” Harry says weakly, and perhaps Malfoy hears the confusion in Harry’s voice because he lets go of Harry’s arse (pity that) and scrunches up his face a little. Then he rolls to his side and Harry finds it far easier to separate from Malfoy than he would have a few moments before.

“What happened?” Malfoy says, repeating Harry’s words.

Trying to frown (but it’s a chore right now, because he still feels loose and warm and sweet all over from a spectacular orgasm), Harry waves his wand at Malfoy’s messy trousers and cleans him up. “Does that help you remember?” Harry asks sarcastically. He cleans himself up as well, then rests flat on the library floor and tries to want to stand up.

“Yes,” Malfoy says. “Thank you for the assistance,” and now he sounds miserable, and so stiff-upper-lip that Harry turns to look at him. He has brought himself to his feet, but he’s still nearby. His face is almost a mask, but he’s blushing bright. He can school his features, but not control his blood flow, apparently. Harry almost snorts out loud. Like _he_ can control _his_?

“I can only apologize and explain that, something came over me,” Malfoy says, looking at a spot of carpet just above Harry’s head. “I sincerely hope I did not… force myself upon you.”

At this, Harry feels his own blush explode across his face, neck and chest. He was forced into nothing. It was brilliant and fantastic and he wants to do it all again immediately, only a great deal more slowly this time.

“You did not,” Harry says, almost equally stiffly. He stands up. “But you were clearly not in your right mind. We both know you can’t stand me.” (Harry is pretty sure he should add that he can’t stand Malfoy either, but – for reasons he isn’t interested in exploring right this second – he doesn’t want to.) “We’ve been thrown together by a terrible situation and we have to solve it.”

“Quite.” Malfoy says, and he nods once. “We should get back to work.” He isn’t looking Harry in the eye.

“Yes,” Harry says, and he picks up the book of translation spells. “I don’t fancy trying to solve this problem all alone.”

Harry hands the book toward Malfoy, and they are both careful to avoid touching one another’s hands as they pass it.

Malfoy opens it to a page he’d marked with a parchment scrap, and points at a heading: “Tweaking Tricky Translations for the Troubled,” it says, and the two of them read it over quickly. It looks just right, and they walk into the hallway and try to find another faerie.

It doesn’t take long before Harry is carrying another faerie over to a soft surface, and this time Malfoy’s spell combinations – finally – elicit pure English. He has written: “Can you explain what is wrong?” in the air above the faerie before Harry has even finished reviving her.

“Yes,” the miserable little yellow and purple faerie explains to Harry. She grasps one of his fingers in her tiny hands and speaks earnestly and quickly. “When you killed the Evil One, ripples of varied, powerful magic exploded outward as he died. He used everything he could, and broke everything he used, and the connections he forged during his half-life didn’t just die when he died; they shattered in a huge spiral of pain. We all feel it, and thought for sure your kind would see it and fix it, but nothing has been done for us. The first Beltane approaches as well, and that – which would normally heal damage and bring connection and unity – is causing upheaval and worsening the problems. This place is the center, and so we are all drawn here. The very land itself would journey here, I believe, if it only could.”

The tiny faerie coughs wetly, but she waves off their concern. “Your magic cannot heal me. Not me as an individual. But you are right, I am not well and I hope you can fix this and therefore, us. I fear we faeries are dying, frankly. We’ve been trying to attract help and attention for months. But no matter. You know now, and now I hope you will fix it.”

“Do you know how?” Harry asks, and he is gratified when he can see that Malfoy’s new spell means that she has actually heard him speak.

“I know very little else,” the faerie says quietly, “but I have my suspicions. For example, is it not odd that he is the one you find yourself working with? And is it not also odd _where_ you have sequestered yourselves? I think these things are signifi…” Her words dissolve into a nasty coughing fit.

Harry looks helplessly toward Malfoy, but he shrugs sadly. He has no solutions for a dying faerie, either.

“If that’s all you know?” Harry says, and she nods, her face all covered over with despairing hope. “Then we will try harder,” Harry says firmly, and she nods one more time, then closes her eyes. Malfoy transfigures something into a little blanket, and drapes it over her. She relaxes slightly as the blanket is placed softly upon her tired body, and the two boys head back toward the Arithmancy classroom without a word of discussion. They both seem to know exactly where they need to go.

Once they are inside, the door swinging itself closed behind them, Harry walks to the window. There are birds absolutely everywhere, and the wolves have made their way into the inner courtyard. Harry shivers with the possibility that there could be maddened students down there with them. But he can’t see any from here, the wolves all seem quite calm, and there’s nothing he can do about it, anyway. Not directly.

“I think she meant that it’s important that we are here, in the _Arithmancy_ room,” Harry says to Malfoy.

“I agree,” Malfoy says, walking over to the shelf of Professor Vector’s library of Arithmancy tomes. “She keeps a case full of reference books in her classroom, all the best and many of the more obscure texts and references on her favourite subject. She has been collecting them for decades now, ever since she joined the Hogwarts faculty nearly eighty years ago.”

“Oh?” Harry says, and he steps toward the wide shelf. It reaches to the ceiling, many feet taller than Malfoy.

“Yes, Pince has copies of about half of these, maybe less than that. If you want to do real Arithmancy research, you have to borrow from Vector. Luckily, she is always very generous with them.”

“I’m quite sure she wouldn’t object to us borrowing anything now,” Harry says wryly. “Do you think Arithmancy is the way to solve this?”

“I do now,” Malfoy says.

“Well, then I hope you know a lot about it,” Harry sighs, “because I don’t know anything. I’ve never studied it.”

“Here,” Malfoy says. He stoops over and pulls a medium-width brown textbook off the lowest shelf. “This is the first year text. See if you can make sense of it. I….” he reaches up high and pulls a book off the highest shelf he can reach, and then a second, and then a third, “will see if any of these have information about repairing varied broken magics. I think at least one of them will.”

“Did you take much Arithmancy?” Harry asks, heading for a desk near the window. It is sunny today, and he fancies sitting in the sunshine – even if it has to come through a window. And orange fog. He pulls a quill and a large, uneven scrap of parchment from the desk and sits down, opens the book.

“Only two years, plus this one.” Malfoy says, looking at a book. “Started a bit late. Then the Carrows cancelled it.”

“Would have thought pure magic like that would be right up their alley,” Harry says, looking up in surprise.

“Oh, it should have been,” Malfoy says, and he looks up and gives a wry half-smile. “But they weren’t smart enough to teach it, and they’d run Vector off, so….”

“Ah,” Harry says, and gets back to reading. Despite occasionally helping Dennis with the subject, he doesn’t feel like he understands the underlying theories at all. It feels that while he might be able to help Dennis tell the time, he’s got no idea how to build Dennis a clock.

But Harry starts at the beginning of the first textbook and pages through slowly, then a little faster. The ancient runes that keep popping up without a lot of explanation are throwing him off (he doesn’t know that subject, either, so Dennis had always just taken care of that without Harry’s input), but he feels like he is understanding this all right. He seems to have learned quite a bit more than he realized, just by helping Dennis with his homework.

Harry finishes looking through the first year book, and Malfoy is deep into his own stack of Arithmancy books, so Harry just levitates a random looking selection of ten or so books from Vector’s shelf and starts in again.

Picking up an attractive red book with tons of gold letters on the cover, Harry smiles at the Gryffindor colouring and starts paging through it, having no idea what he might find. He doesn’t understand a good forty percent of what he sees, but he’s getting more and more excited, because… “This looks almost exactly like geometry,” he finally says.

“Hm?” Malfoy says, his head deep into a large blue textbook with a lot of tiny silver letters on the heavy cover.

“Do you know any geometry, or algebra?” Harry says, and he stands up, his finger in the middle of page one hundred twenty-four – there is an equation in the center of the page, and a ton of little incomprehensible notations all around it. But it’s an equation there in the center, no doubt about it. Even better, Harry thinks it looks an awful lot like the Pythagorean Theorem. He walks over to Malfoy, his finger still pointing to page one hundred twenty-four as though losing track of this equation would spell a disaster Harry can’t handle right now. “Are right triangles important in Arithmancy?”

“I missed the first question,” Malfoy says, looking a bit off-balance to find Harry standing over his desk. “But I do know triangles hold an important place in some of the more advanced Arithmancy that I’ve seen.” He pushes away the book he’s been looking over and pulls a different one close. He flips through it briefly, then finds a page covered with a massive double chart: numbers and runes all over both pages. 

“This is a triangle chart,” Malfoy says, and runs his finger down the edge of the left page. “It shows the amplification of an Incant-equation with ever increasing triangles.”

“So you’d have to understand how the sides of triangles are related to one another, yeah? The sizes?”

Malfoy looks at Harry blankly. Harry tries again. “So you would have to understand the way right triangles increase, and the way if you know the length of two sides you can calculate the other?”

“You can?” Malfoy says, looking confused. “If you can, actually, that would make Arithmancy a lot faster.”

“You can,” Harry says, “and you should know that, because I found the Pythagorean Theorem in this book.” Harry shows Malfoy page one hundred twenty-four. “I don’t understand these notations,” Harry says, “and I don’t understand what these ancient runes are doing in the equation, but I think this is the Pythagorean Theorem. ‘The square of the hypotenuse of a triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of its legs’.”

Malfoy looks completely baffled. “Hypotenuse?” he finally says.

“The side of a right triangle that is opposite the right angle,” Harry explains. But Malfoy still looks confused.

“I don’t know that terminology,” Malfoy says, looking like patience is coming hard to him. Harry walks to the chalkboard and looks for a piece of chalk. He finally finds one on the floor, half underneath the wainscoting. He draws a small right triangle, then a large one, then one more. He has them all face the same way. “See how this angle here looks like a perfect little square corner?”

Malfoy nods once.

“Well, that’s a right angle. It means that every triangle with a corner like this is related to every other one with a corner like this, and you can do maths that will tell you the length of the third leg if you know the other two.” Harry erases the right side of the first triangle, the left leg of the middle triangle, and the bottom of the third. “I could measure what is left and use those numbers to learn the length of the missing leg,” he explains.

“Or you could just draw it in,” Malfoy says, sounding genuinely confused, “and cast a sizing spell.”

Harry takes a deep breath. “You could, for sure, when it’s here on the board. But what if the triangle is just in your head?”

“You mean…” Malfoy says slowly, and he stands and takes a step toward the blackboard, “if the triangle were magical? If you were thinking about it? Using it to amplify an Incant-equation?”

“Yeah!” Harry says. “But didn’t you learn all about this when you studied this text?” He shows Malfoy the cover of the red and gold book where he’d found the rune-filled Pythagorean Theorem.

“What the fuck!” Malfoy exclaims in real shock, and Harry just looks at him, wondering what the hell he’s done wrong this time.

“Why are you looking stuff up in _there_?” Malfoy asks in astonishment. “That’s not a classroom textbook, that’s, that’s one of Vector’s really advanced books! From her personal collection! No one borrows those except the most advanced students. How could you understand anything in there?”

“Er,” Harry tries to process this. “I understand it because I understand some maths,” he says. “I don’t understand most of the other stuff in here, but I do understand maths.”

Malfoy is reading the pages before the Theorem. “Page one hundred twenty-four is what’s called ‘The Lost Incantation.’” Malfoy explains. “Flarriance Fibbul discovered it about a hundred fifty years ago, and then died before he could explain it. No one has explained it since. Are you seriously telling me you can explain it?”

“It’s ancient Muggle maths,” Harry says, shocked. “Pythagoras is, er, Greek, I think. From ancient Greece. He came up with his Theorem a couple thousand years ago. Or more? I don’t know the history well. I’m better at maths.” Harry thinks of William for a second and frowns.

“Then why don’t Muggleborn Hogwarts students know all about it?” Malfoy says, confused – probably sceptical.

“Good question….” Harry says, stumped for a moment. Then he thinks of it. “Because they wouldn’t have learned about it in school yet at age ten!” Harry says, excited. “This is higher maths, not primary school stuff. Besides, you said this text is terribly advanced. How many Hogwarts students have even read it? Let alone Muggleborn ones who came here with a good background in maths?”

“I do remember Vector saying once,” Malfoy says, looking slightly sour, “that most of the best Theoretical Arithmancers have been Muggleborn.” He’s looking out the window now, like looking Harry in the eye while he admits this will stop the words. “I had, assumed, I suppose, that it was because they couldn’t excel at anything else.” His voice has gone quiet.

 _He’s realizing… he was prejudiced_ , Harry thinks. Then Harry thinks about how well Hermione has always done in Arithmancy, but chooses to keep his mouth shut about both. They have bigger fish to fry right now, by a long shot.

Malfoy seems to think so, too. “All right…” he says slowly, and looks blankly toward the wall behind Harry’s shoulder. “But how do we use this to solve the problem?”

“Was there anything in those books about repairing magic?” Harry asks.

“Not yet,” Malfoy says, “but I’ve barely started.” He smiles, lighting up his face, his eyes. Harry can’t breathe for the beauty of it. He suddenly remembers coming hard against Malfoy’s hip less than an hour before, and looks away. Luckily Malfoy doesn’t seem to notice. He simply walks to the shelf and pulls down two more books.

“You look through these,” he says. “I know you haven’t studied this yet, or the prerequisites, but I think you’ll still be able to find pages I should look at – if they are there.”

“All right,” Harry says, and he sits down in the first desk he bumps into. He realizes immediately that from here he has a perfect view of Malfoy’s face whenever he looks up, and he almost jumps up to change desks. Then Malfoy looks up once and gives Harry a distracted look, his half smile stealing Harry’s will to stand. “Let me know if you have a question,” Malfoy says, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll try to help.”

“All right,” Harry says again, and winces at his repetition. He sounds like an idiot. Malfoy is turning him into an idiot. He looks down at the book in front of him and forces himself to open it and read the table of contents.

It takes them seven books and several hours, but they find it eventually. 

_Incant-equations for Healing, Repair and Construction_ , perched at the very top of Vector’s bookshelf. Malfoy has to stand on a chair to see the spines up there.

They would probably have found it sooner, but the spine and cover on this one are both blank.

It’s a short, fat volume bound in a deep, green leather they both think is actually dragonhide. It looks dusty, barely used, and desperately expensive. The spine creaks when they open the book, and the table of contents lists Incant-equations and methods to diagnose and repair every kind of magic the _Magical Creatures_ book mentions and many more.

“So here,” Malfoy says quietly, running his finger down yet another number chart that takes up pages two hundred twenty-two and two hundred twenty-three, “these are the variations on the Incant-equation from the previous page. This is supposed to heal the faerie’s magical web, internal and external.”

“What’s the huge chart about?” Harry asks, even though he thinks he knows the answer. He likes standing here, leaning over the book with Malfoy, shoulder to shoulder.

“On the right it shows how you cast the Incant-equation with more or less power. On the left it shows how you determine what level of power you need to incant with in the first place.”

“So we have to find a chart like this for every kind of magic we want to repair, then we determine the precise level to cast the Incant-equation, then we incant the numbers?”

“I think so,” Malfoy says. He’s chewing on his bottom lip and Harry wants him to stop. Or to do it for him.

“Well, I can understand not being certain,” he says, trying to sound reassuring. “What else do you think we should consider?”

“I think it might matter what order we cast the healing equations,” Malfoy says, and he turns worried eyes to Harry. Harry is amazed at the way Malfoy seems to simply trust him now, at least for this. He’s a bit gobsmacked at the way he simply trusts Malfoy with this as well, for that matter.

“Can we use Arithmancy to determine the best order?” Harry says, hoping the answer is yes. If not, they’ll be flying completely blind unless a faerie can help them again, and that seems like a long shot indeed.

“I…” Malfoy says, looking a bit terrified. “I think so? I’ve only studied this stuff for two and a half years. I’m not confident in this yet.”

“Then maybe we just… calculate everything in advance,” Harry says, thinking out loud, “and then we just… cast. Incant all the equations we’ve planned. Just, you know, quickly?”

“If we can’t find a way to discern exactly what damage has been caused, then… yeah?” Malfoy looks so uncomfortable.

“I think it will be all right,” Harry says, and – swallowing – he puts one hand on Malfoy’s hand. “I have a lot of experience with just… trying shit. It usually ends up working out pretty well.” He grins at Malfoy’s hand and then looks up into Malfoy’s face, feeling scared and brave and queasy.

Malfoy gives a horrible, strained laugh. “It isn’t like we have a better plan,” he says. “So what the hell, eh?”

“All right then,” Harry says, and he picks up the chalk and cleans the board with a quiet spell. “Let’s do some maths.”

It feels so logical; it feels so smart. Harry is so sure that they are on the right track. His certainty even buoys Malfoy, Harry can tell. Malfoy’s mood improves considerably when they get to work.

Harry even thinks they’re halfway to finding the answer, for a while. Between his new understanding of mathematical principles and methods, and Malfoy’s ability to translate Latin and ancient runes (not to mention explain what Arithmancy is and is not capable of), they are moving quickly towards a solution. The castle is full of resources and they fetch them as a team when they need to, unwilling to be alone after what happened the other times. Hours later, things are really looking up.

And then it all falls apart.

“No,” Malfoy says, miserable. “It simply doesn’t work.” He reaches into his hair with both hands and grips it, a picture of furious disappointment. “We’ve calculated the arithmantic value of your wand. And your magical signature. And your exact age on that day. We are both sure we have the proper hour and minute when you cast _Expelliarmus_ and the Dark Lord cast _Avada_ , because Vector made note of it herself for future reference. We have the exact star charts for that day from Trelawney’s room. We found the castle’s precise magi-geographical location on this scroll in Flitwick’s classroom. McGonagall has recorded exactly who was present at the time, alive and … not… so we have calculated the arithmantic effect from the magic of those present: both encapsulated and dissipating. Thanks to Firenze’s notes we’ve even calculated the potential arithmantic effect of that day’s weather, for Merlin’s sake, and it _still_ isn’t working out right. These numbers just don’t….”

“I know,” Harry says, feeling utterly dejected. He takes another bite of one of the sandwiches that an elf called Loovin brought them hours before. The lettuce is warm and wilted but Harry doesn’t even care anymore. “Maybe we should just… sleep. Maybe we can figure it out in the morning, after we’ve got some rest.”

Malfoy yawns and looks embarrassed about it. “Do you think that would be okay? People… need us.” His face goes pink, and Harry can’t help but be touched by it. He wonders if this is the first time in his life that Malfoy has felt anyone (other than his parents) might be counting on him – even if the castle is full of nutters who have no idea that they should.

“I think we aren’t getting anywhere anymore,” Harry says, and he yawns also. “So yeah, we should try sleeping. It isn’t selfish to walk away when we’re flailing like this. We should sleep. I think it will help tremendously.”

And Harry puts down the chalk and heads for the classroom door. He puts his hand on the door handle and turns it. Malfoy stares at him from the desk he’s sitting on. “All right,” Malfoy finally says after staring silently at Harry for a few long seconds, and they walk to the Slytherin dormitory together, saying nothing.

They brush their teeth side by side and change into pyjamas facing away from one another in opposite corners of Malfoy’s dark little dorm room. Harry climbs into the bed first and faces the wall, and Malfoy climbs in next, his back a few warm inches from Harry’s.

“We’ll solve it in the morning,” Harry says, trying to sound confident. It is the first thing he’s said since they left the Arithmancy room.

“Absolutely,” Malfoy says, but Harry can tell they’re both lying through their teeth.

He quickly falls into uneasy dreams.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Harry wakes slowly. It’s completely dark, and he feels utterly brilliant, because there is a hand stroking his cock, a burning brand of an erection frotting gently into his arse, and toothy kisses gentle on his neck. He can’t see anything at all, but it doesn’t take long to remember that he is in Malfoy’s bed, and what he and Malfoy did in the library earlier that day.

He is reasonably sure they are now both completely naked.

Harry makes a soft, involuntary noise of pleasure, and the caressing hand squeezes him. Harry presses his arse backwards into Malfoy’s erection and hears Malfoy giggle.

Giggle. Like he is affected again. Harry stills in Malfoy’s hands, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to notice.

“Want you,” Malfoy sing-songs in a soft, high voice, but he strokes Harry’s balls slowly, with no wasted movement.

“You sure?” Harry says, confused – straining to do the right thing even as his skin electrifies and sings. “Don’t want to take… advantage. You sound a little….”

“Arrrgg…. So fucking noble,” Malfoy whispers. He rests his forehead against the top of Harry’s spine, but doesn’t release Harry’s cock. “Can’t I just… pretend?”

“Like in the library?” Harry says, his eyes flying open in the pitch dark room.

“Shhh,” Malfoy says into Harry’s back. “Just… let me?”

“Okay,” Harry says helplessly. “One condition,” he says, stretching into Malfoy’s caress.

Malfoy makes an interrogative noise that only barely resembles a word, and Harry turns around, reaches over, and gropes at the bedside table for a wand. _Lumos_ , he says. He sets his glowing wand down, pointing it toward the opposite wall to soften the glow. Then he rests his erection on top of Malfoy’s and grinds their cocks together. “Have to see you….”

Malfoy nods once, looking both astonished and eager in the dim glow. Then he reaches up with both hands and dives his fingers into the mop of black waves on Harry’s head.

To Harry’s disappointment they can’t frot properly and kiss at the same time. Harry is just that much shorter.

“Kissing it is,” Harry murmurs, and – pulling them both onto their sides – he drags his body up along Malfoy’s. Malfoy’s cock presses into Harry’s leg – heating and distracting him. Harry’s erection is hard against Malfoy’s stomach. Their tongues touch and move against one another, and Malfoy’s hands are still deep in Harry’s hair. Harry’s hands, though, are everywhere. Harry wants to touch everything. Everything Malfoy. He strokes shoulders and hair, grabs Malfoy’s arse, and rubs his dick against Malfoy’s abs until he can’t kiss anymore. “Wanna come,” he whimpers.

Malfoy twists them over and dumps Harry onto his back, now underneath. “Yeah,” he says, and curves his back over Harry. Then his hand captures their cocks together in one grip and his mouth falls onto Harry’s as though kissing might save his life.

“Ah!” Harry cries into Malfoy’s mouth, and comes helplessly, geysering all over Malfoy’s hand, their cocks, Harry’s own belly. Then Malfoy drags his fingers through the come and spreads it onto his own cock, jerking himself hard and fast as Harry watches; fascinated and still desperately turned on, even as he lays passively – liquefied by his own orgasm.

“Malfoy….” Harry says, a breath into the air.

“Draco.” Draco says, and he kisses the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“Yeah…” Harry says, and he smiles, tentatively touches Draco’s soft blond hair. “Call me Harry.” 

As they come down from the ceiling Harry feels like they have floated up to, Draco casts two gentle cleaning charms, leaving Harry feeling delightfully warm and cared for.

“You know,” Harry says slowly, the idea forming as he speaks, “that’s the wand.”

Draco looks at Harry’s wand, still glowing a gentle _Lumos_.

“No,” Harry says, and he points to the wand in Draco’s left hand. “Yours. I cast the spell, but I did it with your wand. Remember the faerie thought it meant something that I was working with you, specifically? I didn’t go looking for the Arithmancy classroom, I went looking for you.” Harry shifts up onto one elbow, gesturing; this is worth thinking all the way through. “Because you were the only other person who had ever seemed aware that things were getting weird, and because you were the only student I could see on the map who was alone. So I hoped you were alone because you weren’t crazy. And you weren’t. You were perfectly sane. And so was I. And I think that’s because I cast the spell, but I did it with your wand.”

“Holy shit,” Draco says in wonder. “How could we forget? We did all the equations for the wrong wand!”

Even though it is five in the morning, they dress and head for the Arithmancy classroom.

Three hours later, every magical equation is prepared and ready to be incanted.

“Now I know,” Draco says calmly. “It’s obvious. We do them in descending order. See?” He arranges the papers in a stack, his neat handwriting and organized notes making everything clear – even to Harry. “The faeries were affected the very most, so their Incant-equation comes first. It’s the largest one, with the heaviest effect.”

Harry nodded. He’d suspected that this is how it would work as well, once they’d started really digging down and calculating. “And then the wolves,” he says.

“Well, sort of,” Draco says apologetically. “It isn’t that the wolves’ magic is affected, remember?”

“Right, right,” Harry agrees. “They’re upset because of the ley lines.”

“Yeah,” Draco says. “So this one here,” he turned over the faerie’s page so they could look at the second Incant-equation, “should help pacify the wolves and loons and ravens. Possibly other beings as well. Then this one,” he turned over to the third page, “this should soothe all those ruffled owls.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees. “Then we incant for the house-elves, the Loch, the Centaurs, then the Forbidden Forest itself, …”

“…and then the blood, the air, the land,” Draco says, interrupting. He is spellotaping papers together. “Hopefully that will be everything, and things will resettle and heal.”

“If I understand this stuff correctly,” Harry says, perching on the edge of a desk, “the Incant-equations should make a huge difference, and if we got all of this correct, when Beltane comes, the rest will all snap into place, and then things should be all better again.”

“I really, really fucking well hope so,” Draco says with a grim, nervous determination that Harry doesn’t really feel anymore. He is actually starting to feel optimistic: like this is going to work.

“It will be perfect!” Harry says, trying to give Draco confidence. “We head up to the top of Ravenclaw tower, right?”

“It’s got the best location,” Draco agrees. They have discussed this so many times now. He starts packing up their papers into a thin leather satchel he’d found in Vector’s cupboard. Harry puts all the books back on the shelf and Draco cleans up the desks and puts the chalk away. “We get two brooms and fly up there from the ledge next to the Charms classroom.”

“And you’re sure we can get out of that window?” Harry can’t help but ask again.

Draco looks around and calls out “Elf, please?” He puts the satchel around his neck and over one shoulder, then tightens the strap a bit to make it snug. The opening faces his chest. Harry nods in approval. Nothing will come out of that accidentally.

An elf pops in and Draco smiles, pointing at the remains of their lunch and saying “thank you,” when the house-elf bounces over and starts cleaning up after them. 

“Yes, absolutely sure. I’ve done it myself multiple times. Surprised you haven’t. Everyone in Slytherin knows about that one. He opens the door and they head toward Slytherin. “Great view of the lake, and as long as no one is in the Charms room, you’re completely invisible from any window, or the ground. Prime snogging spot.” He ducks his head away from Harry, but Harry can still see the blush that rises on his cheek and neck.

“Did you ever, er…” Harry doesn’t want to sound jealous, but he wants to know. Draco, annoyingly, stays silent, forcing Harry to finish his own sentence. “Did you ever, that spot, you know, personally try it out?” He can feel his face heat up as he awkwardly reveals his feelings.

“Er, once,” Draco admits. “With Pansy.” He chuckles quietly and Harry’s heart thumps a miserable tattoo, waiting for the rest. “What a disaster,” Draco continues. “You might be surprised,” he says, “but I’m rather unrelentingly gay.”

Harry barks out a laugh, relieved that Draco hasn’t taken handsome boys out to that ledge and done… things. A faerie flashes near the ceiling as they head down a staircase. Harry sighs and follows Draco into Slytherin. 

“Matthew once said I could borrow his broom,” Draco says as he stuck his head into an empty dorm room. “So I suppose I will, and you’ll fly mine.” They grab the brooms and head back up toward Charms. Draco is right. They’re able to jimmy open the window without any difficulty, and the ledge is large, flat, and relatively empty – except for the birds, but most all of them fly off in alarm when the boys start opening the window. The one exception is a sleepy looking owl, but it leaves them alone. From there Harry flies to the top of Ravenclaw tower. The pink and orange clouds are disturbingly close, but they both manage to avoid them. Draco lands next to him, scattering more birds.

“Yuck,” Harry says without inflection. There is bird poo everywhere.

“ _Evanesco_ ,” Draco says, and the stones are suddenly much cleaner.

“ _Evanesco_ ,” Harry adds, and between the two of them, the stone floor and parapets are clean. They lay their brooms down on the bumpy grey stone. Draco takes the satchel off and opens it, dividing the Incant-equations. Draco is to start, and the very moment he stops incanting the equation to repair the faerie’s magic, Harry is meant to start in with the equation for the geographical magic. There are ten Incant-equations, so they will each cast five. Their papers are all attached with Spellotape, and they can just shuffle upwards so they don’t have to let go of one another, should the casting prove painful or debilitating.

Taking a deep breath, Draco puts his right arm around Harry’s left side, lifts his wand in his left hand, and begins to incant. Harry puts his arm around Draco’s waist, listens carefully, and takes over the very moment that Draco speaks the last number of his first incantation.

It is bizarrely anti-climactic. They quickly incant the equations, reading off the numbers that they have painstakingly researched, calculated and copied out in their best handwriting. No lights emerge from their wands, no noises. The sky does not change as they complete their task. They feel no pain, no draining of energy. It is like… like they were reading long lists of meaningless numbers.

Silence returns as Harry lowers the last paper in his hands. “Do you think it worked?” he says quietly.

“No idea,” Draco says, and steps toward the parapet. Harry goes with him. Their arms are still around one another. They look over the ledge and see…. Wolves. Birds. The occasional pale flash Harry assumes is a faerie in distress. Harry gives a sigh to express his own distress. “Nothing,” Harry says.

“Nothing,” Draco echoes, sounding devastated.

“Let’s go for a fly,” Harry says impulsively.

“What?” Draco says, sounding slightly dazed and truly disheartened. “Why?”

“Information,” Harry says as decisively as he can pretend to feel. “We can’t see much from here at all. Let’s look around more.”

“Yeah,” Draco says, sounding resigned. “I suppose.” He walks back towards the brooms and straddles the one he’d borrowed, waiting until Harry is hovering a few feet off the parapet before taking off.

Cautiously, Harry heads away from the tower. He still doesn’t want to get too close to those wolves _or_ those clouds. Slowly, the two of them fly around Hogwarts.

“Do you think some of the birds have gone?” Draco says, sounding uncertain.

“Yes!” Harry says, but he isn’t sure at all. Maybe some have flown away? Not all. Not even many. But it hasn’t been that long, and there have been a lot of birds. (There are still a lot of birds.) Harry and Draco watch several ravens lazily flap off toward the Forbidden Forest. “See?” Harry says with forced enthusiasm. He wants Draco to smile.

Draco grimaces worriedly at him instead, and they continue their slow fly around the top of the castle. In the end, when they arrive back at the ledge outside the charms room, neither of them is particularly convinced of anything. Yes, they saw some animals that seemed to be leaving. But so many were not. Yes, the animals all seemed to be quite calm. Some were sleeping! But they hadn’t seemed particularly agitated beforehand, either. If those Incant-equations _weren’t_ the solution, the two of them are at a standstill. They haven’t the start of a clue of what to try instead. It is a bit maddening.

They dismount their brooms and open the window easily, climbing down into the charms room without incident, closing up the window and latching it tight again.

“Let’s go to bed,” Harry says, feeling like if he has to stay in this room any longer he will scream or (at least) grind his teeth.

“What?” Draco says, turning amazed eyes and an open mouth to Harry, looking like he might drop that broom.

Harry forces himself to smile calmly. “I want to get naked with you, and I know you want to touch me, too. What’s the use in pretending we’ve only been snogging because of the broken magic? We need to wait for a while, to see what happens. This might take some time, and waiting is going to be really challenging without something brill to occupy our attention.” Harry tries winking at Draco and Draco reacts with a sudden blush and loss of eye contact.

“You’re serious,” Draco says quietly, managing to look Harry in the eye again after he says it.

“Yep,” Harry says in the jauntiest, most upbeat tone he can create. “I wasn’t faking before. I liked it all. Let’s go do it again.” He waggles his eyebrows at Draco and this, finally, is what does it. Draco laughs – a sudden, short sound.

“All right, yeah. Yes. Yes!” Draco grabs Harry’s open hand and pulls. They trip and laugh their way through the empty hallways, hearing jokes from this doorway, laughter from that, fireworks from another. The castle has taken a bit more damage since they last looked, but it isn’t _too_ bad. Especially if their Incant-equations work and this is about to end. 

The Great Hall is still filled with students and teachers eating sweets and puddings, but Harry couldn’t be less hungry for food.

They lock themselves into Draco’s little room and tumble onto the bed, fully clothed. Harry starts to unbutton Draco’s shirt and, clearly impatient, Draco waves his wand to unfasten every one of their hooks, ties, zippers, and buttons. He stands just long enough to shimmy messily out of all of his clothing. He’s dumping it onto the floor underneath his feet. Harry wants to stare as Draco’s nakedness is revealed, but he thinks he’ll get yelled at if he doesn’t hurry out of his own clothes, so he throws them toward the floor and scoots backwards on the large bed to make room for Draco.

Naked, Draco jumps back on the bed and straddles Harry, knees around Harry’s hips, hands around Harry’s shoulders. His cock dangles and Harry stares at it. Draco is getting hard.

Harry has been for a while.

Harry reaches for Draco’s cock and Draco moves closer to make this easier. “You’re really fucking tall,” Harry says without thinking much about the words. Mostly he is thinking about Draco’s cock. He wonders what it will taste like, and he’s pretty sure Draco won’t mind if Harry tries to find out. He grins at the thought.

“No,” Draco says in a low, sultry voice, “you’re really fucking short.”

A bit insulted, Harry glares at Draco, but Draco smiles and then laughs, and Harry laughs involuntarily in response. “You’re really fucking funny, too,” Harry says, and then he lets go of Draco and puts both hands on the wall right behind his head. Draco looks a little surprised, and then Harry pushes himself downwards fast, landing with his mouth just under Draco’s erection after only a bit more shoving.

Harry grabs Draco’s cock again and feels it jerk in his hand. Draco feels completely hard, so Harry squeezes him and Draco growls his approval. “Maybe being short’s a good thing,” Harry says, his face tipped backwards to look into Draco’s eyes.

Draco has dropped his head all the way down. His eyebrows react, traveling up his forehead, down toward the mattress. “Oh?” Draco asks, but he doesn’t actually sound like he’s asking for information. He sounds flirty.

Harry moves his head back and pulls the head of Draco’s cock into his mouth.

He’s never done anything even remotely like this before, but Draco makes a good noise, so Harry explores. It’s weird to have a cockhead in his mouth. Weird, but he thinks he likes it. He sucks at Draco like he’s a hot ice lolly, and Draco moans.

Harry takes a bit more of Draco into his mouth and sucks Draco’s scent hard into his nose.

At first Draco tastes a bit like sweat, smells a bit like soap, but the more of his cock Harry takes into his mouth the more he senses an underlying scent that comes across as just… _male_. Is it weird, that Draco would smell like man? Or is it the most obvious thing in the world?

Harry’s not really sure, but he thinks their cocks are probably similar lengths and widths. They are both uncircumcised, too. Harry’s not sure if the familiarity is a relief or a disappointment.

With Harry’s right hand firmly around the base, Draco’s cock fits nicely into Harry’s mouth, and this – Harry decides – is neither a relief nor a disappointment. It’s sexy. He tries exploring Draco’s foreskin with the tip of his tongue and Draco reacts strongly. “Wait!” Draco huffs out, and he pulls away slightly. Confused and a bit disappointed, Harry lets go of Draco’s cock and sighing, Draco lies down on his left side. “Please?” he then says in a strangled sort of voice, and Harry smiles and bends back in toward Draco’s body.

He ends up with his head resting on Draco’s left thigh. (If the bed weren’t so enormous his feet would be hanging off the bottom.) Draco can’t fuck his face this way, and while Harry suspects he will be up for that eventually, right now it is a relief. Harry is hard as a steel bar and leaking heavily onto the sheets, but he isn’t willing to let go of Draco long enough to get one off at the wrist. Instead, he holds hard onto Draco’s erection with one fist while he caresses Draco’s tight round arse cheeks and caresses Draco’s stomach with his other hand.

He loves sucking cock, he decides. Eventually he’ll probably want to wank while he does it. Right now, though, he just wants to touch Draco, concentrate on Draco. One hand is still busy controlling the base of Draco’s cock, and with the other he explores Draco’s body. Harry tugs gently at his balls, teases at the cleft of his arse. Harry strokes Draco’s back gently and grabs hard at the back of Draco’s thigh. Harry reaches up as best he can and finds Draco’s nipple with his fingertips.

Draco writhes.

Harry sucks inexpertly at Draco’s cock. He knows he isn’t doing much here, no variation, no finesse. He just sucks hard at the head as he moves his mouth up and down over and over: like fucking – but sort of backwards. Harry can taste Draco strongly now, and while he tastes a little bitter, it’s still exciting and oddly sexy. And then Draco makes another deep, strangled sound. It doesn’t sound anything like English, but Draco’s balls are tight and high – so much so that Harry can’t really tug on them anymore – and Harry realizes that he has to decide quickly whether or not he’s up for trying to swallow. _What the hell_ , he thinks, and takes his mouth off Draco’s cock just enough to say “Go ahead.” Draco responds with a confused, questioning noise, as though Harry hadn’t been clear. So Harry grabs Draco’s arse with his left, lets go of Draco’s cock with his right and strokes Draco’s balls as best he can find them – deep inside Draco as they currently are, it’s a bit of a challenge.

Draco makes a bellowing noise and then Harry concentrates on swallowing. It seems like gobs and gobs of come – but Harry thinks harder and realizes it isn’t at all. It’s more that Draco keeps shooting out again and again, but each jet is probably less than half a teaspoon. Three swallows, four, five just to be sure, and – even though he’s resting on his side – Draco collapses onto the mattress like a marionette with cut strings. His cock is still pretty hard: Harry suspects he’s sensitive, so he kisses Draco’s cock gently and scoots up the bed until their faces are close. He smiles at Draco and absently strokes his own erection while Draco opens his eyes and smiles beatifically, like some sort of sweaty angel.

“No mark,” Harry realizes, looking at Draco’s pale, muscular arms.

“It faded to nothing after you killed him,” Draco says, clearly surprised that Harry didn’t know.

“Oh,” Harry says, surprised. Then he remembers eavesdropping on Snape and Karkaroff during the TriWizard. Their marks had been nearly gone while Voldemort was hiding away in Albania, but they were coming back as Voldemort got stronger. “Right. That makes sense, actually.”

“You didn’t come?” Draco says, changing the subject, tipping his head down a bit to watch Harry stroke his own cock.

“Not yet,” Harry says, and kisses Draco’s smile. “M’really close, though. Want to help?”

Draco’s face suddenly blooms with red and Harry wonders what he’s done wrong.

“Wanyuddafugme?” Draco asks very quietly in response, and even though Harry might have responded “excuse me” out loud, his heart (and cock) heard Draco perfectly well.

He feels his face and neck (and even his shoulders) heat suddenly with the power of his embarrassment and arousal. “Gnahhh,” Harry says, feeling overwhelmed and stupid, and Draco smiles through his own blush.

Draco doesn’t speak. He just gets up onto his hands and knees, opens a drawer in the little table next to the bed, and takes out a small ceramic pot. He screws off the lid, dips his fingers in, coats two with lube and then lays down on his back next to Harry. Harry’s mouth gapes wide open of its own accord.

Harry watches Draco open his tight, rosy arsehole with one, then two fingers, and feels like he could have an orgasm just from watching this display. Hell, he could probably come just from looking at Draco’s _face_ as he opens himself up – as long as he knew what Draco was doing _down there_.

“Can I touch you?” Harry says, feeling like he might die if the answer is no, but Draco just nods, most of his attention taken up by his own fingers in his arse.

Harry is fighting desire now, refusing to touch his own cock. There is no way he is willing to risk coming before they fuck. He’d have to wait to get hard again in order to find out what it feels like to have actual _sex_. (Even if he’s pretty sure it would only take five or six minutes right now to get hard again.) And if he touches his cock – if anything touches his cock – he’s afraid he will come.

Merlin, though, he really wants to come.

He strokes Draco’s tight stomach muscles instead, and watches them shiver. He bends over and kisses Draco’s stomach in fascination, and then, since Draco’s half-hard cock is right there, he licks at the head of it.

“Nooowwww!!” Draco yelps in response. “Now!” He pushes Harry’s head away, shoves Harry onto his back, grabs the back of Harry’s dick hard with one hand and wipes the excess lube on it with the other. Harry holds his own breath and thinks about a big, blank, empty chalkboard with absolutely nothing on it. He uses this trick to wrestle his breathing under control, then stops breathing altogether when Draco puts a hand on his chest and starts to maneuver himself over Harry’s body – one hand still controlling Harry’s cock.

“You…” Draco wipes a drop of sweat from his own forehead and squints down at Harry as though concentrating enough to speak takes everything he has left. “You ever done this before?”

Slowly, Harry shakes his head no. Wonder (he is sure) is etched all over his face.

“Me either,” Draco says, and then – before Harry can say anything in response to this astonishing mutual revelation (not that he has any words in his head) – Draco begins to push his body on to Harry’s cock. Harry is almost distracted from the intensifying pleasure by the look of absorption and determination on Draco’s face. He nearly looks like someone learning Apparition. At this thought Harry grabs for Draco’s sides. He doesn’t actually think Draco would try to _Apparate_ away, but the very idea is so horrible that he reacts bodily.

“Let me… control it?” Draco says, apparently thinking Harry wants to pull Draco down hard onto his cock, and Harry nods, stroking Draco’s sides and wanting to kiss him again. With Draco in control Harry hopes that he will last a bit. It seems to work, because although Harry is incoherent with pleasure, Draco is just now sitting down on him – Harry is completely inside Draco – and he still hasn’t come. He expects to, though, any moment. The pleasure is rising and he longs to flip Draco over and pound hard into his arse.

Being inside another person is like having his whole body wrapped in honey, or silk. Being inside _Draco_ is like having his memories and attitudes run through Aunt Petunia’s blender. Everything he ever thought about this boy has been shredded, reformed, and reconstituted – only now with added fucking! Harry thinks of bad telly commercials and laughs a bit hysterically, startling Draco. “Shhh,” Harry says, and reaches for Draco’s neck. He pulls Draco down just enough to kiss him on the lips, and Draco kisses him back gently, then opens his mouth and takes charge of the kiss.

Now Harry’s cock is inside Draco, but Draco’s tongue is inside Harry. Harry loses himself in the kiss and the slide of his cock inside Draco’s arse. Draco is tight, wet, hot and _moving_ , and his tongue is firm, questing, in charge. Really, Draco is in charge of everything and Harry is flat on his back, just feeling and taking and wanting. His orgasm is building inside his cock like a mountain of fizzy Coke, and it’s going to erupt any second. “Gonna come,” he says into Draco’s mouth, and he hopes it sounded like words. Draco pulls his mouth away just enough to show Harry a brilliant, beautiful smile, and Harry comes like never before, mewling “oh, oh, oh,” as his cock expands and explodes and fills his whole body with bone-deep, delicious pleasure.

\- *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** -

\- *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** - *** -

Harry wakes up in Draco’s arms. The room is filled with a soft sunshine. He is ravenously hungry and eager to see if the situation in the castle has improved any further.

Even though he and Draco had gone to bed before lunch, Harry feels sure that once they’d fallen asleep after sex, they had slept for hours upon hours. He just knows, somehow, that it is now the next morning. He hopes this means something good about all the magic they had cast. Maybe it had taken more out of them than they had realized, and this was how they had recovered? Whyever it was, he quite needs to eat.

“Elf?” he says, and Loovin pops in. “Breakfast?” Loovin says, and Harry nods and smiles. Loovin vanishes again and Draco finally reacts to the noises with a squirm and a tiny whine.

“Light,” Draco says in a grumpy little voice, and Harry’s guts seize up in a terrifyingly pleasant way. That was much too adorable for so early in the morning. If Draco looks at Harry’s face, he’ll see everything.

Luckily, Draco has no interest in opening his eyes. Instead he burrows a bit further under the covers and drapes his right leg over Harry’s. His right arm is around Harry’s middle. Harry is hard and he thinks Draco is too, but he still wants to get out and explore the castle. Perhaps they will fly around again. That will get them a good view of the grounds, let them count the wolves and birds.

Draco seems to have other ideas, though. He is rocking his hips a bit, and now Harry is quite certain that Draco is hard. “Hey,” he says softly. Draco grunts at him. This, too, is cute. “Can you wait to snog? I want to see what’s going on around the castle.”

Draco harrumphs quietly. “No,” he says, and puts Harry’s hand on his erection. Harry can’t help but stroke it: velvet and iron. He loves the feel of it in his hand. It’s getting warm under this blanket.

Draco sighs with happiness just as Loovin returns. Harry feels his face turn bright red, but Loovin doesn’t seem to care or notice. He simply sets a plate of scrambled eggs down on the desk next to a plate of toast, produces a small carafe of coffee, adds plates and cutlery, bows and vanishes.

“Did you see that?” Harry says, excited. “Loovin’s acting like a normal house-elf!”

Draco just fucks into Harry’s hand, and laughing a little, Harry maneuvers them into a better position. He sits up against the wall and pulls Draco between his legs, then reaches around again to give Draco a real hand job. Draco’s arse is now pressed against Harry’s cock. Harry’s leaking a little pre-come, and for a second he entertains the idea of another proper fuck. But no, he’s too eager to check the castle. Draco’s head falls back onto Harry’s left shoulder and Harry puts more effort into the hand job. He’ll be able to see everything if he shifts a bit to the right, so he does, and this presses Draco’s lower back against his erection a little more firmly. “I think I might be able to come like this,” he says, and Draco turns his head to caress Harry’s ear with his lips and tongue.

“You could come for sure if you fucked me,” Draco says, and Harry shivers with delight. He twists his hand firmly over Draco’s retracted foreskin and Draco moans softly. “But that works, too,” Draco says and tries to reach back for Harry’s cock.

“Breakfast… getting cold,” Harry manages to say, but Draco simply twists in Harry’s arms and pulls Harry down onto the mattress.

“Kiss me,” Draco demands, and Harry opens his mouth to Draco. They are cock to cock, now, jacking one another off and kissing distractedly. Harry is just deciding that the fucking idea has real merit when he feels his orgasm start to steal up on him, sneaking into his spine, raveling through his pelvic bones, curling into the base of his cock. “Gonna come,” Harry promises, and Draco makes a high-pitched sound of approval. “Come with me?” Harry whispers into Draco’s ear. Then Harry bites him gently, and Draco shrieks. Alarmed, Harry tries to pull away, but Draco shudders and whimpers, “Bite me again? Please, Harry, please bite me again!”

Harry puts his teeth back on Draco’s ear, bites his neck, bites his shoulder. Draco is coming now, and it is all over the place. It’s like a shower of come, and Harry wants to fuck Draco right this second. He pushes Draco onto his back and bites at the cords of Draco’s neck and frots his erection into Draco’s slippery body, trying to figure out how to shove his cock inside. Draco’s legs open up and Harry reaches for Draco’s hole, wants to cover it with Draco’s own come – use it like lube, but all he has to do is touch the rim of it and his orgasm takes over his entire body and brain, wracking him with pleasure, stealing every thought.

When Harry comes down from his high, he is laying on top of Draco and they are covered with come, squelching with it. Harry goes cold with worry, will Draco hate this? Think it is gross? But Draco is petting Harry’s back and has covered them up with the blanket again. Harry even thinks he feels Draco kiss the side of his head, and he relaxes slightly, then wriggles his arms underneath Draco and squeezes.

“That was beyond brilliant,” Harry says. “Amazing.”

Draco hmms. It’s a happy sort of sound, and Harry’s smile increases.

It’s slow going, but they get out of bed, shower, dress, and eat the food that (of course) Loovin had protected with warming and preservative charms. Harry takes Draco’s hand and pulls him into the Slytherin common room, where they find that same large group of young Slytherins as before, only right now they are sleeping on the floor and couches in their school robes.

They tiptoe out into the corridor, brooms in hand, and head for the charms classroom. On their way, Harry can’t stop pointing out that no one else seems to be awake, even though it is nearly ten in the morning. Everywhere they had been finding large groups of students enjoying frivolous activities, they now find piles of sleeping students and even faculty.

Harry desperately hopes this is a good sign.

They open the window, step onto the charms ledge, and fly off quickly, saying almost nothing. They are both intensely curious now, almost afraid that the small changes mean something bad, almost willing to believe that they actually indicate something good.

From the air, they see it. Where there were thousands upon thousands of birds, there are now a few hundred. The trees – which had been black with ravens – are green again. The parapets – which had been undulating with owls – are solid stone again. Where there were hundreds of wolves, now there are dozens. The lawns almost look normal. The pastel fog is gone. It is going to be a gorgeous spring day.

Harry whoops with joy and throws himself upwards, heading for the only cloud he can see. It is wispy and white. Draco is below him, zipping from tower to tower, playing tag with them, screaming with joy into the wind. They’ve done it. They’ve done it!

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

They watch from the air until they are too hungry to wait for lunch any longer. By now there are only a few dozen wolves left hanging about, and the bird situation seems nearly ordinary again. Cautious, they head for the Great Hall, hoping for more good news.

Harry is saddened to see the flash of not one, but two distressed faeries as they make their way downwards toward the Great Hall. Draco sees them, too. He shrugs. “Slower to heal?” he suggests, and Harry thinks about this and nods. The faeries seem to have gotten the very worst of it all. It seems reasonable that they would be the slowest to heal.

But the Great Hall is more than Harry could have hoped for. Lunch is served. A _real_ lunch! No pudding at all right now, except some fresh fruit! The tables are sparsely populated, and everyone looks a little dazed and rumpled, but it is very clear that Harry and Draco’s hard work has made an enormous difference. Harry grins hugely, throws his hands up in the air and whoops his joy. He turns to Draco, who looks pleased as well, and grabs him around the middle, giving him a bear hug.

Draco just stands there, so Harry dances in place, still holding onto Draco. He hasn’t been this happy in _months_. “We did it, Draco. We did it!”

“You may well have,” Harry hears behind him. It is McGonagall, and she sounds somehow both formal and bemused. Harry turns around and smiles at the headmistress. He feels Draco go stiff and try to back discreetly away, so he grabs Draco’s hand and yanks him in closer.

“Please, gentlemen,” McGonagall says. “Eat your lunch. Then I would request that you join me in my office and explain what you did. And what you believe you _un_ did, as well. I don’t seem to be very aware of what was wrong. Or, frankly, how many days have passed. I think I may owe the two of you a truly remarkable thank you.” She takes a step away, then stops and looks back at Harry. “And to you, Harry, I suspect I owe a truly remarkable _apology_.”

Harry blushes, and nods, and pulls Draco to sit with him at the very end of the Slytherin table, where no one else is sitting. He might have tried to get Draco to sit with him at the Gryffindor table, except for the uncertainty that Draco showed when McGonagall approached. Plus, none of the eighth year Gryffindors have made it downstairs yet, so there is no one clamoring for Harry to sit with them and tell them everything.

They eat lunch quickly and nod at McGonagall when they finish, and the three of them head up to her office together, Harry and Draco explaining everything as best they can along the way. Harry in particular takes great joy in explaining the links between mathematics and Arithmancy. McGonagall seems to drink in every word they say. When they get to the second floor, McGonagall stops before turning toward her office. “From everything you’ve said,” she tells them, “it is clear to me we need to invite someone else to join this conversation.”

She calls for a house-elf, and when one appears she asks it to tell Professor Vector she is needed in McGonagall’s office.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Once Harry and Draco finish explaining everything to McGonagall and Vector in great detail – including having an elf fetch their Incant-equations for Vector to scrutinize and dissect – Vector declares them both the heroes of the hour, and then explains where they went wrong. Yes, they’ve repaired a tremendous amount of damage, but they aren’t done. The Floos are all still broken. The portraits have not reappeared. The faeries are still in some distress. The loons may be off the Black Lake but the Giant Squid is still roiling about in there like he’s on illegal potions. “And of course, the castle itself has taken some damage. But that we shall take care of last.”

“Maybe Ron and Hermione can help now,” Harry mutters, feeling overwhelmed by all that Vector still wants to help them do.

Vector looks at McGonagall, and they both look mildly uncomfortable. Harry gives Draco a look of confusion, hoping he can explain what’s going on, but Draco shrugs one elegant shoulder, looks at the headmistress and the Arithmancy professor, and waits.

“None of the other students are quite recovered,” McGonagall says delicately. “It is only you two who are up to this task. Everyone else is still in need of… protective measures.”

“Protective measures?” Harry says, but Draco’s eyes have gone wide.

“They are self-medicating,” Vector says kindly.

“You mean, the jokes?” Harry thinks it through a bit more. “The handstands and fireworks and sweets and, er, other stuff?” He blushes.

“Thanks to your notable success with the first round of Arithmancy repair, the staff are able to assist you now,” McGonagall says crisply. “We are older. Our personal magic is more settled and we are in better control of our abilities and strengths. But you two are the only young people here capable of challenging magical tasks at this time. You were at the magical center of the creation of the shattered web, and your personal magic was not as negatively affected, unlike everyone – and everything – else that was present. Mr Weasley and Miss Granger, sadly, are not yet ready for us to approach them seeking their assistance. They will need to continue to apply… protective measures.”

“We understand,” Draco says quickly, clearly wanting McGonagall to stop talking about this. He grips Harry’s hand and Harry lets him. He gets it now, and he doesn’t particularly want to talk about it either. On the other hand, it seems that everyone’s crazy behavior this week has been for very good reasons indeed. That, at least, he can be happy about. Even though he never wants to speak about it again.

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Over the next four days, Harry and Draco work with Vector all day and sleep (well, “sleep” and sleep) in Draco’s bed every night. Eventually the Floos all start working again, and – after testing them thoroughly – McGonagall encourages every student to Floo home (instead of taking the Hogwarts Express) a bit early for the Easter hols so as to more quickly reassure their parents that they are safe and healthy.

The Auror Academy is on a break for the Easter holidays, but Harry is dancing around the possibility of not going back when they reopen. Not that he has the slightest idea what the hell to do with himself instead of joining the Auror Corps.

As requested, a half hour after everyone else has gone for Easter, and Draco is packed to Floo home to his worried mother, Draco and Harry return to McGonagall’s office. To Harry’s surprise, she asks Harry to come in alone, and has Draco sit outside on the bench, to wait on the other side of a closed door.

“Headmistress?” Harry says, as she closes the door behind him. Draco was ostentatiously examining his nails as Harry walked away. Harry hopes Draco won’t be too hurt by… whatever McGonagall wants to say to him alone.

McGonagall stands as Harry sits down in the chair she points to, and Harry is shocked to see a look of discomfort – chagrin, even – on her normally stoic face. She puts a hand on his shoulder briefly before moving to sit behind her desk. She casts some sort of privacy spell and Harry feels a spike of alarm. Does she think Draco will try to eavesdrop? And what might she say that he isn’t to share with Draco? “Harry, I have a confession to make. And an apology to offer.”

Harry nods, wondering what the hell she might say.

“Do you remember in July, when you tried to ask me if you had a chance at being named Head Boy, and I said no?”

Harry nods, a lump coming to his throat.

“That wasn’t really correct. I had decided to offer you the position of Head Boy, and Miss Granger Head Girl, when Chief Auror Robards approached me and said that you had yet to accept your place in the Auror Academy. He insisted that you must accept that position. That the wizarding world needed you to graduate from the Auror Academy as quickly as possible. I was pressured into pushing you towards the Auror Academy, and away from Hogwarts. I regret terribly that I capitulated. I have for months. I suppose that’s why I allowed myself to blame you for it.” She sighs quietly and looks toward the window for a moment. Then she sits up ramrod straight, looks Harry in the eye, and starts again. 

“I feel that I not only did I make an error, I caused you to make one, as well. Especially now, in light of your newfound interest in both Muggle mathematics and Arithmancy, I can only offer my deep and sincere apology.”

Shocked, Harry can’t tell her that he wishes to accept the apology. Frankly, he doesn’t think he can even speak. He could have been Head Boy? But then, if he had, Ron would not have been. Would he even have wanted to be, had he known Ron was the next in line? Could he have managed to say no to her? And of course, who knows what else might have changed, had he been at Hogwarts all year, as a proper student instead of a weekend guest.

McGonagall interrupts his careening thoughts, and Harry listens. It’s easier than trying to think this stuff through, anyway.

“I agreed last month that it was too late for you to return. I want you to know that, though it may sound bizarre, and though I know you are enrolled elsewhere, I no longer believe that. I wish to formally invite you to return to Hogwarts after the Easter holiday. We can get you extra tutoring and you can take your N.E.W.T.s with your friends. You might not get the very highest marks, but I have confidence that, should you choose to return, you will do very well indeed. And of course, I will fully understand, should you choose to remain at the Auror Academy. But…” she pauses. “I have heard how you speak of it.”

Then McGonagall stands up, brushing at her skirts as though to dispose of useless crumbs. “Now,” she says, sounding once again most businesslike and efficient, “you can make these big decisions later. School is not in session all the rest of this week and next. So let’s invite Mr Malfoy in before he falls asleep!”

She dissipates the privacy spell, walks over to open the door and smiles through at Draco, who stands up. To Harry’s surprise, she does not move back into her office, but instead gestures Draco in and remains at the door as though about to leave.

“I invite you both to use my Floo when you are done,” she says, stepping through her door, “but before you leave, there is someone here who would very much like to speak with you both.” Then she heads down the stairs, leaving them to her office.

Draco enters the room and Harry stands and smiles warmly at him. He _does_ suddenly have a tremendous decision to make, but he can worry about that later. He is wondering who else might want to speak to them. There isn’t anyone else in the room. “Hello?” Draco says quietly, and Dumbledore’s portrait raises his shaggy head. His eyes twinkle, and Harry sits back down heavily in the chair.

“Mr Malfoy,” Dumbledore says warmly, and Draco goes to stand in front of the portrait.

“Sir?” Draco says, sounding uncertain, and Harry wishes he felt comfortable enough to jump up and take his hand.

But what would Dumbledore think? Hell, what would _Draco_ think? Harry swallows and watches Draco handle himself just fine in front of the portrait of the man he tried so hard (and failed, mostly) to kill.

“I wish to commend you, Mr Malfoy,” Dumbledore says, his painted eyes twinkling oddly. Draco tips his head down a touch instead of speaking. “Headmistress McGonagall has filled me in on the events of this past week, and I am extremely pleased with your ingenuity, hard work, and loyalty to this school. If I may be so impertinent as to say it out loud, Mr Malfoy, I always thought you had it in you.” Draco looks up at the old headmaster, but he still doesn’t speak.

“I’m proud of you,” Dumbledore says, and this, finally, brings “Thank you, sir,” to Draco’s lips.

Harry grips hard at the arms of the chair he is still sitting silently in. This is not his conversation to invade.

“The headmistress and I have discussed this, Mr Malfoy, and she has allowed me to be the one to bestow house points.”

“Oh!” Draco says, very softly. Harry is surprised as well. House points had not occurred to him as a potential outcome of this conversation.

“You might have noticed,” Dumbledore says with an amused lilt to his voice, “that the headmistress and I have rather different styles when it comes to awarding house points.”

Draco tries to cover a small snorting noise, and Harry laughs out loud. Dumbledore politely ignores them both.

“So she and I had a bit of a discussion, and we came to a compromise. Draco Malfoy, for working with Harry Potter and eventually Professor Vector to save the school from a terrible scourge of broken magic, I hereby award Slytherin five hundred points!”

Draco stumbles slightly, and Harry’s mouth gapes open.

“I can see you think it slightly excessive,” Dumbledore says, looking the tiniest bit put out. “McGonagall wanted to award you one hundred points, but I wanted to award you a thousand. After all, when Harry saved Miss Weasley a few years ago, I gave him two hundred points, and another two hundred points to Ronald Weasley. And that was just for saving _one_ life. You two have – at the very least – saved an entire species. The faeries are genuinely, acutely grateful to you both. They would not have survived the situation as it was very much longer.”

“Thank you, sir.” Draco manages. “That, you… Slytherin is almost _guaranteed_ to win the House Cup now.”

“You more than deserve it,” Dumbledore says, looking most jolly. “And I agree. I believe this puts you a good three hundred points ahead of Ravenclaw, and more than that against Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Take care your housemates don’t damage your new advantage and I think you’ll have that just about wrapped up.” He smiles widely. “I wish I could offer you a lemon drop, but instead I shall have to ask you to Floo home to your mother. I understand most of the parents are feeling a bit frantic. Hogwarts seeming to completely vanish into pastel fog for nearly a week will do that.”

“Of course, sir,” Draco says, and he picks up the small satchel he is bringing home with him. He has a complete wardrobe at home, he has explained to Harry. Consequently he doesn’t need to pack very much at all. He’s just bringing a book, his toothbrush and his favourite pair of pyjamas.

He turns and Harry stands, feeling odd. He really wants to kiss Draco goodbye, even though he is planning to spend plenty of time at the Manor while Draco is there for the hols. But can he do something that intimate in front of a room full of portraits?

Draco answers the question for him, stepping toward Harry with a smile. Harry smiles back. Whatever the hell he’s doing with his career, his personal life feels pretty damn sorted right now. Draco puts his satchel on his shoulder and reaches for Harry’s neck. They step in close together and kiss chastely on closed lips. “See you tonight for dinner?” Draco asks, and Harry nods and grins.

“See you at six,” Harry agrees and hugs Draco goodbye. Draco puts his forehead on Harry’s. He’s so much taller; Harry’s head is tipped up and Draco’s back is curved down, and it feels almost like they have privacy. Draco winks and Harry grins, and strokes Draco’s hair away from his ear. Then Draco straightens up, throws some powder in the fireplace, and Floos home in a bright swirl.

Harry finds himself grinning at the fire like an idiot until Dumbledore clears his throat with a subtle sound.

“Sir?” Harry says, snapping back into focus. “Were you going to award me some house points as well?” He blushes at the impertinence of his own question but he is awfully curious. Doesn’t he deserve five hundred points for Gryffindor?

“Harry, of course not,” Dumbledore looks genuinely surprised by Harry’s question. “You are no longer a student at this school.”

Harry flushes horribly hot. Of course he isn’t. How could he forget?

“Should I award Professor Vector house points, then?” Dumbledore sounds amused now. “If I remember correctly, she was a Slytherin herself, back in the 1910s.”

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” Harry says, suitably chastened. “What _did_ you want to talk about?”

“Of course I did want to thank you as well,” Dumbledore begins. “I am pleased and grateful for what you and Mr Malfoy have accomplished. I understand that it was all at your instigation, as well. No one else saw what you two did, and no one else tried to do anything about it. But I also wanted to just ask after you. What are you doing with yourself? Minerva doesn’t seem to want to tell me.”

“Oh!” Harry says, feeling rather proud of such fulsome praise. “I, thank you for that, sir.” He grins. “I’m at the Auror Academy now. Studying hard. Should become an Auror in about a year and a half.” He plasters an even wider grin on his face, wishing he could be as proud of this as he knows damn well he is supposed to. Maybe praise for it from Dumbledore himself will help him feel like he is doing the right thing.

“Harry! No!” Harry’s false grin melts off his mouth as Dumbledore explodes with disappointment. “You are the master of the Elder Wand, Harry! You cannot be an Auror! I thought you understood that when you told me, after the final battle, of your plan to die undefeated!”

“I…” Harry’s brain stops. He moves to sit down, but there is no chair behind him, and he stumbles, nearly falling down.

Dumbledore looks miserable, and very sorry.

Harry pulls a chair over and sits down in front of Dumbledore’s portrait. He looks around the walls at the other portraits, but is grateful to see that they are all empty. He is especially grateful to see that _Snape’s_ frame holds nothing but a cauldron and an empty chair.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Harry finally says when Dumbledore’s silence gets to him. “It didn’t seem to occur to anyone else, either.” Then Harry pauses. “But, no one else knows, except Ron and Hermione, of course. I mean, if no one knows….”

“You spoke of it, Harry.” Dumbledore says softly. “You explained it all, to Voldemort, right before he tried to kill you that one last time. Everyone heard you. The students, the parents, the professors, all of Hogsmeade come to reinforce against the Death Eaters… I am told that the last words Tom Riddle ever heard, were Harry Potter declaring ‘I am the true master of the Elder Wand’.”

Harry feels himself whiten, feels himself slump into the chair he is so grateful to have sat down in before he was reminded of something he can hardly believe he had forgotten. He bends his forehead down to his right hand and thinks.

He had told the world about the Elder Wand. Of course he had. He remembers now, every word. He had explained about how he’d disarmed Draco, …

Oh Merlin. He’d disarmed Draco. But then, when he’d given Draco back his own wand, the next morning, he’d had Draco “disarm” him just enough that Draco’s wand would recognize Draco as its master again. Did that make Draco once again the master of the Elder Wand? He’d tried to avoid it, but…. That was a horrible responsibility, and one he wouldn’t wish on anyone. Bad enough that he had to carry it himself.

Still, one of the two of them was, quite obviously, the master of the damned thing, and that would have to be dealt with. And Dumbledore was right. Because whether or not Harry was the current master of that menace, Harry needed to become the master of it and remain the undefeated master of it until his death – hopefully after a couple hundred years of happily fucking Draco Malfoy. And that didn’t sound exactly compatible with years on the Auror force, dueling and imprisoning evil, dark witches and wizards. Even if he _hadn’t_ announced to the world that he was the master of the Elder Wand, he could have easily been overpowered at some point in his career. But since everyone knew, it seemed nearly guaranteed that groups would conspire to overpower him. The Elder Wand might be invulnerable, undefeatable, but Harry was not. Harry slept, for one thing.

Hell. In this position, he should never even duel casually again. What if he lost? Thank Merlin he hadn’t lost any duels at the Auror Academy. Not so far, anyway.

There was only one thing for it. The wizarding world would have to be convinced that someone else was the master of the Elder Wand, and that this master died undefeated, leaving the Deathstick useless and broken, its terrible power no longer of consequence. 

Perhaps it could even be true.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry says meekly, straightening in his chair. “You are absolutely right. And frankly, I have an idea…”

Dumbledore listened carefully, nodding. Soon Harry had Flooed Kingsley Shacklebolt and explained everything.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The next day, Shacklebolt, Draco, Harry and the Elder Wand itself all went to St Mungo’s looking for a dying witch or wizard. They were escorted by three Aurors from the Order of the Phoenix, just to make sure no one tried anything. They needed someone on their deathbed, yet strong enough to end a scourge upon all of wizard kind. The chief healer had an idea right away of whom they should ask.

In her front page obituary the very next day, Neville Longbottom’s Great-Great-Aunt Adelline Longbottom Cuppatts was hailed as a heroine. Roused with difficulty from the bed where she lay dying of Dyscrasia, squinting and gripping Neville’s hand, Adelline had listened as Neville and his grandmother Augusta (Adelline’s niece by marriage) had explained what they hoped she might be willing to do. It took a few tries for her to understand, but once she had it all, she agreed immediately. “Niles is long gone; my children and grandchildren are all well cared for. It’s time. I’m honored to have the chance to make something good of my death now, after all these years of a good life.”

She had grasped the Elder Wand in her gnarled, arthritic, yet surprisingly strong hand, nodded proudly, and sat up with only a small amount of assistance from her niece. Augusta went off to call all of Adelline’s descendants, who Flooed to St Mungo’s quickly. They had all been expecting a call about Adelline.

As Augusta was leaving the room, Adelline completely disarmed both Harry and Draco (just in case). Then to make sure that the charms she cast with the Elder Wand actually stuck, she first levitated her own bed, then – from four feet off the floor – simultaneously turned everyone’s robes tangerine orange. When everything worked, she cackled with joy and smiled at the Deathstick. “I can see why people want this Mama,” she said with real appreciation. “I haven’t cast magic that powerful since the 1990s.”

But she put the Elder Wand down next to her and waited – still hovering four feet off the floor – for her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to arrive. Soon she was surrounded by those she loved, the Elder Wand stashed discreetly under her left leg, her bed back on the floor. She received kisses, hugs and tears with grace and equanimity. Eventually, when everyone who loved her had had a chance to say goodbye, she herself took up the Elder Wand and summoned a triple dosage of the Muggle morphine that the St Mungo’s staff kept on hand for those in such pain that nothing else would work. And – smiling goodbye to her entire remaining family, she overdosed. It took only a few minutes, and she went peacefully. Her older daughters held her hands.

Harry fetched his wand from the corner into which Adelline Cuppatts had thrown it, with a quavering _Expelliarmus!_ and with a quiet _Diffindo_ , he destroyed the Elder Wand easily, and forever. They would rebury it with Dumbledore once they left the hospital.

Hugging Neville hard, Harry breathed a sigh of relief he thought he would never have been able to release. Then he turned to the Minister and resigned from the Auror Academy.

Kingsley was clearly stunned. “But Harry. Now that no one is the master of the Elder Wand, there’s no reason for you to leave!”

“Oh, but there is,” Harry says, with a small, wry grin. “I hate it there. I don’t want to be an Auror.”

“What do you want to do?” Neville says, curious.

“Indeed, Harry.” Draco says, his own wand back in his hand. He reaches out and takes Harry’s hand into his own. Harry squeezes it and smiles. Draco looks down into Harry’s smiling eyes. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to go to Muggle University and get a degree in maths,” Harry says, grinning like a loon. “And then I want to learn how that integrates with Arithmancy.”

And to that, absolutely no one in the room had a single thing to say in response.

*** *** *** Epilogue *** *** *** Epilogue *** *** *** Epilogue *** *** *** Epilogue *** *** ***

“You had better be ready to take over this job now, child,” Vector says, sounding even grumpier than usual. “I’ve held off retiring long enough.”

“Yes, Septima,” Harry says, laughing. She’d come in while he was unpacking mathematics and Arithmancy books into the shelves lining his new classroom.

“Why are you doing that by hand, child? Magic! Use magic!” Vector sits in the armchair Harry had asked McGonagall for, waves her wand, and empties a large box of books onto the shelves with one wave.

“Oh Septima,” Harry teases. “Those are all out of order now, and I’ll have to reshelve them! If you want to help, go hide these somewhere in my new office, will you?” Harry puts a box next to Vector, and she reaches in to examine what she finds inside.

It had required a good bit of confounding magic to trick his way into University, but once he’d gotten in, Harry was proud to have earned both his Bsc and his MPhil in mathematics completely on his own merit. It had taken him five years, and for the last three Septima Vector’s complaints about being forced to wait for her replacement had grown increasingly loud and crotchety.

Vector holds his laminated degrees, one in each hand. “Certainly not,” she says sourly. “These take pride of place. You can hide the order of Merlin if you like; I won’t complain. But these? These you hang, right over the chalkboard.” And raising her wand, she does it for him. “Don’t even _try_ to get those down, either.” She looks smug.

“I won’t,” Harry says, hands on hips, mild indignation in his tone. “I heard which sticking charm you chose! What if I move to teach in a different classroom, Septima?”

“Don’t, then,” Vector says, and she winks at him. “So,” she continues, rearranging herself in the chair to get more comfortable. Harry continues to unpack books. “The Board of Governors approved the new curriculum, eh?”

“Yes, thank Merlin,” Harry says, wiping his forehead once. He casts a cooling charm. August in the castle can be a bit warm, and unpacking seven years worth of brand new Muggle maths textbooks isn’t helping. “As you can see, they even decided to purchase the textbooks. They didn’t think the pure-blood families would know how to buy Muggle textbooks, and they thought it was a good way to throw their support behind the idea with full force.”

“Good,” Vector says curtly. “I was worried you’d have trouble getting them to understand the value of adding the study of mathematics to Hogwarts. It amazes me how much more we can do with Arithmancy now. Those Muggles have so much technical skill.”

“The repercussions go so far beyond Arithmancy, too.” Harry says with delight. “I can hardly wait to show everyone what a good basic understanding of maths will do for the study of Charms. Firenze has been telling me he thinks it could enhance the study of Divination, as well. And the possibilities for Transfiguration! It’s a pity Zavrazin isn’t ready to hear about it yet, but I have confidence that McGonagall will convince him. I mean, I couldn’t have accomplished any of this without McGonagall’s full support,” Harry says.

“And here I thought you couldn’t have done it without mine,” Draco says mildly from the doorway.

“Draco!” Harry puts down a handful of books and strides to the doorway, where his boyfriend stands smirking.

Harry kisses Draco as though Vector wasn’t there. “I haven’t seen you in _days_!” Harry cajoles when Draco gently pushes him away.

“Septima,” Draco says instead, striding over to shake her hand.

“Draco,” Vector says with a warmth she doesn’t usually offer Harry. Harry rolls his eyes. Septima likes to pretend she is a big scary task master, but he knows she is really a pussycat in disguise. With Draco, for some reason, she doesn’t even bother with the disguise. “How was Finland?”

“Yes, my dear boyfriend who likes to butter up my mentor, how _was_ Finland?”

“It was excellent,” Draco says with satisfaction. “They’ve agreed to most of my demands. I even got the tax abatement. Didn’t think they would go for that one, since the Muggle Fins are socialists.”

“When do you break ground for the new factory, then?” Harry wonders.

“As soon as possible. Even magic is no match for a Finnish winter. We need to get the outer shell as complete as possible before the first freeze, then we can install equipment all through the winter if necessary.” He claps his hands together. “Ah, Harry. This location is _perfect_. It is just a hair above the Arctic circle, not far from Rovaniemi. We’ll barely have to bother hiding it from the Muggles. And on top of that, the geographical magical is… Merlin, Harry, it’s perfection. The purest, strongest earth based magic I found. The wolves and snowy owls it attracts….” Draco shivered.

“You boys should celebrate,” Vector says firmly, and she levers herself out of her chair. “I hope I will see you at dinner?”

“We wouldn’t miss it,” Draco says.

“Merlin,” Harry says. “Like we would miss your goodbye dinner! We’ll see you in the teacher’s lounge at eight, right?”

“Quite,” Vector says with relish. “I’ll bring the brandy. Until then, however, I need to Portkey the last of my things out of my old rooms and into my new one. I’m looking forward to living so close to my granddaughter and her family.”

“Just around the corner from her, is that right?” Harry asks, and Vector nods at him.

“But are there any other magical folk in Penrith, Septima?” Draco asks as she makes her slow way to the doorway.

“Like I give a shit,” Septima says without turning around, and all three of them laugh. Then she leaves the room and starts down the hallway.

“So, Harry,” Draco says, and he reaches out to caress Harry’s messy hair. “Septima thinks we should celebrate?” His smile is pure sex and Harry feels his knees weaken.

“I’ll finish unpacking later,” Harry says, dropping a book onto a desk without looking at it. “I have a brand new set of professorial rooms to break in.”

“Pity we can’t _Apparate_ inside Hogwarts,” Draco says, taking one hand out of Harry’s hair to caress Harry’s arse.

“We’ll have to walk fast, then,” Harry says, and they lock the classroom door as they leave.

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End file.
